The Detective in the Tower
by Imaginethat27
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been imprisoned in a tower by his brother Mycroft ever since he was a child. With no hope of escape, and no chance of ever being set free, Sherlock's life looks bleak. That is, until a retired army doctor by the name of John Watson happens upon Sherlock's tower and turns his whole world around. (Sherlock-Rapunzel, rated T for sexual references and minor Mpreg)
1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time (well, it actually wasn't that long ago really, but this is the way all extraordinary tales begin) there lived a family who went by the name of Holmes. The Holmes family had one son whose name was Mycroft Holmes. He was clever, vain, manipulative and spoilt young man, who only saw opportunity if he knew he could get something out of it.

For his whole life, Mycroft had been the star of the Holmes family. He was admired, respected and nobody would dare stand up to him. People knew his position, took pity on him for his 'trials' and in turn piled praise upon him until he was almost shivering in delight. In more ways than one, he was practically the king of the Holmes establishment.

That was, until Sherlock came along.

* * *

Yes, something compelled Mrs Holmes to have another child, because one fateful day she brought another son-Sherlock Holmes-into the world. And as the child grew, it became clear quickly that he was everything Mycroft was not. Despite his naturally cold-almost sociopathic-behaviour, he was well liked, sought out for advice and an all-round charmer. He also possessed a great number of looks, including (but not limited to) shining blue-grey eyes, a dazzling smile and the most beautiful hair ever graced upon anybody, man or woman.

His hair...

Even when he was only a few days old, he had a gorgeous abundance of dark chocolate-bordering on black-curls. His parents (in fact scratch that, everyone he met) praised his glorious curls for their softness, silkiness and beauty. It made Mycroft want to scream with blasted anguish every time he saw somebody gushing over his brother's hair as though it was the Second Coming of Christ.

His previously intellectual parents even became too stupid to cut the child's hair, calling it a sin. And seeing as they were the Holmes' family (and they could do whatever they liked) they left Sherlock's hair to grow longer and longer, until the current time where it fell gently to his waist.

So Sherlock with his beautiful hair, winning good looks, decent civilised personality and sociopathic charm, was the ultimate winner of the establishment's empathy and respect.

And naturally, Mycroft hated him.

He was jealous of the baby from the moment he was brought into the household. He was no longer the centre of attention and he loathed the feeling. He was jealous of everything that Sherlock was naturally possessed with that he was not. Sherlock didn't have to spend his life working without much natural charm to get people to like him, and the fact made Mycroft's blood boil.

As he watched the appalling child grow, Mycroft felt a bitter seed planted in his heart. He watched Sherlock only become more popular with the members of the house, whilst he slipped into a dark and reclusive existence, no longer the focus of anyone's attentions.

Something had to be done. Clearly he couldn't go around for the rest of his life living in Sherlock's shadow. The thought made him positively sick. Sherlock had to be removed from the picture; he had to be sent away so that Mycroft could take back what was rightfully his, and regain the fearsome respect that he deserved.

He racked his brains for months trying to come up with the ultimate solution, before it hit him in the face. He would simply take the child and lock him away somewhere where nobody would ever find him.

Because that's what you did with beautiful objects, wasn't it? You hid them away so no one else could be allowed to experience of joy that the item brought you. No harm would come to the boy (Mycroft despised messes) and Mycroft could take his place as the rightful best man of the Holmes family. No more playing second fiddle to a sociopathic genius.

* * *

So on the dawn of his twelfth birthday, Mycroft sneaked into Sherlock's room and shook him awake. He painted a broad grin on his face as the child groggily took in his surroundings.

"What is it Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned, still half asleep.

"I've got a surprise for you" Mycroft replied coolly "come with me."

All Sherlock wanted to do was roll over and slip back into his dreams. But his natural curiosity and thirst for knowledge got the better of him, and he managed to rise profoundly from his bed. He then followed Mycroft out of his room, down the stairs and out of the front door.

The moon was still shining along the streets of London (well, it was the crack of dawn) as Mycroft led Sherlock down towards a parked car.

"What's the surprise for Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned, collapsing into the backseat and rubbing his eyes to get rid of the sleep in them.

"It is your birthday is it not?" Mycroft smiled slyly "consider this your present."

"But why do we have to go for a drive in the middle of the night?" Sherlock complained.

"It'll be worth it" Mycroft grinned, staring out of the window "you'll see…"

For how long they drove, Sherlock didn't know. He fell asleep after a while, but when he awoke, the sun had broken over the world and they were on the outskirts of a forest.

"Follow me Sherlock" Mycroft grinned, taking the child's hand and leading him into the woods.

They walked for about an hour or so, whilst Sherlock tiredly admired the half-lit skyline, until the came to a thick glade of trees. Mycroft lead Sherlock through them, deep into the darkness, before daylight broke again and they were standing in a wide clearing. Sherlock looked up and gasped.

Standing before him, was an enormous tower. Made of brick with smooth walls, it stood in the clearing like an imposing stone giant, outlined against the sunlit skyline.

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, a look of confusion gracing his features "what…what is this for?"

Mycroft smiled slyly again "happy birthday little brother."

Sherlock blinked "you got me a… tower for my birthday?" he questioned, looking at Mycroft as though he had gone and sprouted an extra head.

Mycroft laughed "let me show you properly" he grinned.

He led the child to a secret door, covered with thick ivory. He pushed it open, and led Sherlock up what seem like endless millions of stairs, before pushing open another door at the top.

Sherlock looked around. The room at the top was lavishly decorated with fine furnishings. Along one wall ran an entire bookcase, overspilling with books, a fireplace blazed at another, and an entire laboratory (Sherlock's heart leapt) was set up especially down one end of the room.

Sherlock grasped Mycroft's hands "is… is all this mine?"

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock jumped up and down in excitement.

"Mycroft it's… fantastic!" he grinned. He wasn't usually one to get so excited about things, but a private laboratory? That was enough to make him jump up and fly around the room.

Mycroft grinned cruelly as he admired the child's clear excitement, bouncing around the interior space of the tower and admiring every nook and cranny. Clearly things were going very accordingly to plan.

"Good to hear. Now, the bathroom is through that little door there, there's food in the pantries in case you get hungry. I'll leave you to your business, shall I?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded with a brief 'yes sure' in reply, already testing out his new lab equipment.

Mycroft grinned pleasantly, closed the door and left.

* * *

That night, he returned to settle the final part of his plan. Before he left though, he went into the nearest London supply's warehouse to pick up some much required items. When he arrived back at the tower to finish off his plan, Sherlock was still eagerly experimenting in his makeshift lab. Mycroft had to physically drag him over to the bed to carry out the last part of his plan.

"Sherlock, do you like it here?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded eagerly "yes! It's wonderful!"

Mycroft grinned "good to hear. Would you like to stay here tonight? It is your birthday after all."

Sherlock nodded, a grin spread across his face, curls bouncing widely.

Mycroft smiled "Good to know. Now Sherlock, I forgot to mention, but there is one more part to your suprise."

Sherlock's eyes widened "really?"

Mycroft nodded, running his hands through Sherlock's curls "Sherlock, you do know how mummy adores you?"

Sherlock nodded uncertainly.

"And you know just how much she loves your _beautiful _hair?" Mycroft drawled, trying desperately not to vomit from the simpering sweetness of his voice.

Sherlock again nodded, his gaze diverting to his beautiful curls.

"Well, why not give her a really lovely surprise?" Mycroft asked, before reaching into his pocket "I have a solution that will give you the longest, most wonderful tresses in the world" he held up a syringe "imagine how proud mummy would be of your hair when she sees it, falling down your back like that silken waterfall it is." _('That's it Mycroft, hold it in, fight the urge to vomit all over the kid…')_

"You mean… it would fall past my waist?" Sherlock questioned, sounding confused.

"My dear boy, it would sweep the floor once the solution has been administered!" Mycroft grinned.

Sherlock stroked his soft tresses absentmindedly, a small smile glowing on his face. He knew his mother loved his hair, she could spend hours just combing it gently after a long day. He knew she would be over the moon if his hair fell to the floor like a wedding train.

"What would father think?" Sherlock questioned, still unsure.

"Sherlock, do you know how proud he would be?" Mycroft simpered, having to pause to choke back the intermittent feelings at the back of his throat "you would be the toast of the town after he had finished boasting about you!"

Sherlock grinned. He couldn't resist the idea of being bragged about by his father, making the great and imposing man proud of him.

"Alright!" he grinned, turning to sit with his back to Mycroft and carefully arranging his hair "let's do it!"

Mycroft grinned slyly and raised the needle. He stabbed it roughly into Sherlock's upper arm. Sherlock winced in pain, before Mycroft ejected the offending substance.

After only a minute of having the solution, Sherlock fell backwards onto the bed in a dead faint.

Mycroft smiled and lay the child down flat, arranging his hair so that he wouldn't become tangled in it as it grew. He then dimmed the lights in the room and left, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he was on the opposite side of the door to Sherlock, he reached for the supplies that he had brought earlier. Knowing he only had a few hours before the solution's sleep effect wore off; he knelt down and began bricking up the door to the tower.

Once he had trailed back down the stairs and bricked up the other door, Mycroft stood back and observed the noble structure. It seemed to do its purpose justice, being not just a tempting place for a boy like Sherlock, but also the greatest place to hide away a treasure.

Because after all, who would ever think to look for him here?

* * *

**Note: Hello to my readers (and newcomers, Willkommen, bienvenue, _welcome...)_**

**This is a little story idea that popped into my head one day. I have decided to share it with you, and I sincerely hope that you like it! I have read many other wonderful fics that have dealt with this kind of thing before, and I have been wanting to add my own interpratation to the group for quite a while now. Please leave a review or PM me with some feedback, as you know I love to hear from my readers. :)**

**By the way, let's just clear some things up quickly. Yes, Mycroft obtained a hair growth solution (well, his father works for the government, and this is a fairytale...) and yes, Mycroft is in the villain's shoes. I wanted to explore a jealous, vain side to his relation, rather than the character he is on the show, _but there is no Mycroft hate coming from this author! _Seriously, I adore him. Come and join the Mycroft fandom with me... (we have cake...)**

**Also, I warn you now. There will be some scenes where the characters are very OOC. _I AM NOT DOING THIS BECAUSE I AM ATTEMPTING TO DISPLEASE THE SHERLOCK VIEWERS/WIDER FANFICTION AUDIENCE IN GENERAL._**

**But there are two reasons for this.**

**1) This is a _fairytale. _Fairytales are traditionally written in an old fashioned style, and are fluffy, fluffy, _fluffy_. I have tried to stay close to the typical Sherlock fanfiction procedure, but there will be times when the characters will slip out of character and go off and do whatever they do in my head all day. (Probably frolic around in fields full off unwritten plots, _I don't know.)_**

**2) I am writing fanfiction for myself. I adore the fact that other people enjoy my writing, but this story is my own, and while I thrive on suggestions, in the end I have to make a decision about how I want this story to travel. I am not trying to disrespect any member of this insanely wonderful fandom by making this OOC. Seriously though, have you ever tried writing fluff? Three words- Very, very difficult.**

**... Oh no wait, that's two. How about, _really _very difficult. :D**

**So without further ado, please fasten your seatbelts, place your tray tables up and prepare for take off! (Popcorn and drinks will be avaliable once we are flying over chapter five).**


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock finally came around, there was sunlight streaming through the window of his tower. He groaned in annoyance, because he had a terrific headache and his arm was still aching from where Mycroft had stabbed him with the needle.

He began to sit up, but stopped dead in a sudden movement and gasped.

His hair, once waist length, now fell past his thighs, past his ankles, over the side of the bed and extended far into the room in a waterfall of beautiful, silken curls.

Sherlock gasped in surprised delight, running his hands through his tresses and shivering in bliss at the gloriously soft feeling. He jumped off his bed and raced towards the door.

"Mycroft!" He called "Mycroft look, my hair is extraordinarily long! Mycroft…"

Sherlock flung the door open, but his heart froze when he saw the bricks blocking his only exit.

"M…Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned "Mycroft!"

There came no reply. Sherlock ran around the entire interior of the tower, poking his head into the bathroom, even opening all the pantries "Mycroft?!"

"Sherlock!" he suddenly heard a distant call "Sherlock my boy, come to the window!"

Sherlock raced over, and saw Mycroft standing far below him.

"Mycroft!" he cried "Mycroft, what happened to the door?"

"Oh yes" Mycroft shook his head "sorry, I forgot to mention, I've bricked it up…"

"What?!" Sherlock gasped in horror.

"It's for your own good Sherlock" Mycroft shrugged "the world is a dangerous place my boy, it is better if you stay here, where you'll be safe…"

Sherlock's bottom lip trembled as Mycroft continued "the world is full of vicious creatures who would stop at nothing to harm someone as remarkable as yourself…"

"I don't want to be safe!" Sherlock interrupted, tears burning in his eyes "I want to go home Mycroft, please let me out of here!"

Mycroft smirked at Sherlock's outburst. He hadn't expected the child to warm to the idea instantly, but his instant rebellion was music to Mycroft's ears. Finally Mycroft had the chance to play the upper hand.

"I'm sorry Sherlock" he shrugged again "you're just too precious to be allowed to remain outside; you'll thank me one day…"

Sherlock clenched his eyes, feeling the hot tears which burned behind the darkness.

"Please Mycroft" he whimpered, opening his eyes and letting a few tears drip down his face "I don't want to be locked away…"

"It's for your own good" Mycroft smiled. Sherlock was _begging _him for something. Stop the press, this was a world first.

"I don't want to be sheltered!" Sherlock cried "I want to be free Mycroft! Please let me go!"

Mycroft shook his head "I'll see you tomorrow little brother."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock cried "Mycroft!"

Mycroft payed him no heed, instead turning on his heel and disappearing into the trees again.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock wept against the stone windowsill of the tower "Mycroft, come back…"

But his words soon became nothing but incoherent sobs. It didn't matter anyway, Mycroft wasn't coming back.

* * *

As evening came, Sherlock still lay against the wall of his tower. His tears had dried up now, but his heart felt empty and cold.

"Sherlock!" he heard a voice. Lifting his head, he saw Mycroft standing at the foot of the tower "Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock blinked, confused.

"Why?" he called back down.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. For a genius, the child was an imbecile.

"So I can climb up and bring you something to eat" Mycroft explained "I highly doubt you've eaten all day…"

"I don't want a thing from you!" Sherlock yelled "go away!"

"Sherlock…!" Mycroft began, but Sherlock payed no heed, racing away from his window and flopping down onto his bed.

Mycroft shrugged. If Sherlock wanted to play the Stubborn Mule, that was fine with him. He would have to give in eventually…

"Alright" Mycroft admitted defeat to the empty window "I'll come back tomorrow, in case you've changed your mind…"

Sherlock let a few more tears leak out of his eyes as Mycroft left. His freedom had been challenged, but Sherlock was not going to give up on winning it back without a fight.

* * *

True to his word, Mycroft returned again the next day with more food.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!" he called again.

Sherlock sat idly by the window, calmly brushing his silken tresses.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!" Mycroft tried again, louder this time.

"Under no circumstances" Sherlock grinned, poking his tongue out at his brother.

Mycroft smirked, shrugged and stalked off again, knowing that Sherlock would have to crack eventually.

* * *

He was right of course. After seven days without anything to eat, Sherlock was so weak that he couldn't think straight. So he finally gave in to Mycroft, hung his tresses over a hook that Mycroft had placed by the window and let his beautiful hair tumble out the window towards the ground far below.

Mycroft grinned and grasped the gorgeous curls, before scaling the tower easily. When he reached the window Sherlock all but attacked him, grabbing the supplies and taking himself over to the table, not bothering with any form of cutlery, before eagerly shoving piles of food into his mouth.

"Chew it you savage" Mycroft sighed as Sherlock shovelled the foodstuffs down his throat.

"Shut up" Sherlock growled rudely, secretly pleased with the disgusted look on his brother's face.

Once he had eaten everything that Mycroft had brought, he wiped his mouth (thankfully-though Mycroft-with a napkin) and turned to face his brother.

"Haven't you got somewhere else you have to be?" he asked.

"I thought I would spend the day with you" Mycroft smirked "I have cleared up my schedule…"

"I don't want you here!" Sherlock spat. He was far from his usual, dignified self, but he was furious with his brother. He was being deprived of his privileges and freedom, and if one way of hitting back was rudeness, then he would all but go for it.

Mycroft rolled his eyes "Sherlock, I will not have this conversation again. This tower is your home now, and believe me when I say it is for your own good…"

"It's not a home, it's a prison!" Sherlock shouted back in retaliation "that's all it is, and that's all it ever will be!" and for good measure, he stepped forward and punched Mycroft as hard as he could in the stomach.

Mycroft's eyes grew dark. "You had better learn to like it Sherlock" he hissed "because you're going to be here for a very long time."

Sherlock scrunched up his eyes. He had promised himself he wouldn't cry, not when he was trying so hard to be brave…

But his emotions-few as he retained-betrayed him, and soon he felt several tears running down his cheeks.

But he wouldn't apologise. He could cry, but he would never apologise. Not to Mycroft, not for as long as he lived.

Mycroft watched Sherlock, sighing in discontent as he wiped his face with his sleeve.

"One day you'll learn Sherlock" Mycroft sighed, as he rehung the child's hair back over the hook, watching them slip silently towards the ground "one day you'll see, everything I do is for your own good…"

And with those words, he slipped back down Sherlock's tresses and strolled back into the trees, once again leaving Sherlock alone in the tower.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Fifteen years later…**_

Had you to drive an hour away from London, reach the outskirts of a large (and apparently, uninhabited) forest, then manoeuvre around for a few hours, you would come to a clearing which hosted an enormous-seemingly (again) uninhabited-tower.

_Seemingly_ uninhabited.

But things are almost never what they seem, and this tower was about as empty as an ice cream shop on a summer's day.

Sherlock Holmes sat idly on the window frame. In one hand he held a bow, and in the other, a violin.

He lifted his hands and ran the bow across the strings, producing a variety of screeching notes, before giving up with a frustrated sigh and flinging the offending instrument down.

He was _bored_.

Well, that was nothing new. He had been nothing _but_ bored for the past fifteen years.

At twenty seven, Sherlock was even more beautiful than he ever had been as a child. His eyes were a sparkling blue-grey still, now featuring a new intellect and maturity he had lacked as a child. On the rare occasion that he smiled, it was enough to make the birds outside become dazzled and fall momentarily towards the ground.

And his hair was (if possible) even more beautiful than before. It was long, silken, soft, strong, thick and just as wonderful as they day Mycroft had injected the substance into his arm. It was the only part of his appearance which he truly liked, and which Mycroft gave him any credit for.

As if on cue with his thoughts, he heard a voice call out far below.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock obeyed grudgingly, wrapping his gorgeous tresses around the window hook and letting them tumble down to Mycroft, who was waiting impatiently below.

Sherlock winced as Mycroft grasped his hair and began pulling himself up. Mycroft-at thirty four-was older and weighed twice as much as Sherlock did currently. In his twenties, Mycroft had also discovered a fondness for cake which hadn't left him since, and Sherlock was reminded of it every day when Mycroft tugged at his hair.

Eventually, Mycroft managed to somehow pull himself up to the tower window. Sherlock reached over and hauled him in, not interested in going through another minute of agony.

Mycroft dusted himself down and chucked Sherlock a basket of food. Sherlock wandered over to the cupboards-trying really hard not to pant in exhortation, because he knew Mycroft would be furious-as Mycroft wandered over to his 'lab.'

"Don't touch" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft tutted, but didn't touch any of Sherlock's items.

"What have you been doing today?" Mycroft questioned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes "I'll give you three guesses."

"Finding valuable ways to spend your time?"

Sherlock glared at him.

"Sherlock, you can't possibly be doing nothing all day…"

"Spot on Mycroft"

"If you complain so much about being bored," Mycroft grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl "find some way to spend your time, rather than lazing around and complaining."

Sherlock felt a spark of anger ignite in him "Mycroft, in case you haven't realised, there is _nothing _to do here!

"Sherlock, you're meant to be a genius, experiment, find something to do!"

"There's nothing to do!"

"Play your violin"

"Repetitive"

"Work on… whatever you actually do with your lab, what do you actually do with it?"

"None of your business, besides, that's tedious"

"Brush your hair!"

"I've brushed every inch of my hair!" Sherlock yelled, losing his temper "that's all I do and it's all I'll ever do! You're not the one locked up 24 hours a day, you wouldn't understand!"

"No" Mycroft snapped back "I'm not repeating this argument…"

But Sherlock was beyond reason now. He could feel an age long argument burning in his heart, and he wasn't prepared to back down. No matter how well worn and extorted the damned thing was, he couldn't resist readmitting his fury.

"I hate this!" Sherlock yelled "I hate being locked up like this, I hate being safe, I hate being bored and I hate you! All you ever do is expand your waistline by shovelling cake in your mouth and create agony for me by climbing up my hair! And for all you've done, you expect me to be grateful?" he forced a dry laugh "you've made my life a misery, and if the way I can back at you is by complaining, then so be it!"

During this whole argument, Mycroft's face had grown redder and redder. Once Sherlock had finished his spiel, the two brother's faced each other off.

Sherlock expected Mycroft to yell at him, to furiously berate him for the insults he had thrown. But he did so much worse than that.

Mycroft walked back over to the window and let Sherlock's tresses fall back to the ground, before turning back to him.

"Understand this Sherlock, and here me now. You will _never _leave this tower, not for as long as you live. You're mine and mine alone until the day you draw your final breath." Mycroft muttered cruelly "you'll never escape, and even if you did you'd have nowhere to go, you die before you even got a taste of the _freedom_ you so desperately desire" he stepped over and grasped Sherlock's hair, causing the man to wince as the pain shot through to his scalp "and don't expect anyone to come and rescue you either. No one knows you're here, no one knows you exist. You are _nothing_, and that's all you're ever going to be."

And with those words, he slipped back down Sherlock's long locks, and disappeared back into the trees.

Sherlock stood, shell-shocked, staring at the window his brother had just descended from. For the first time in fifteen years, he felt tears prickle in his eyes…

He let them disappear. No. He was not going to be forced into a nervous breakdown by that detestable being...

But his fury wouldn't cease. The infernal screech of frustration which constantly built up inside him wouldn't be subdued, and eventually he found himself shouting, cursing Mycroft, the world and all beings who were free to inhabit it. He shouted and screamed, breaking the boundaries of sound and controlled temperament.

He grabbed his hair and pulled it in frustration and anger, before collapsing beside his window. He watched the sun setting, casting a beautiful red glow over the world. He had discovered, many years ago, that on a clear day he could see the outline of London sparkling against the horizon far away, as it was that evening.

Mycroft was right. He was nothing. He thought of his parents, and of London and his old home and his previous life, a life from a time which seemed to fade as though it was simply a dream from decades ago. He would never see them again, never have the chance to re-enter society, never be free…

As the sunset turned into night and the stars glittered across the heavens, Sherlock Holmes sat placidly against the window of his tower prison, and wished he was dead so that he could finally have the freedom he desired.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft stalked away from the tower, pushing past the host of trees and shrubs with a determined snarl on his face. He was furious with Sherlock. The man may be mostly talk, but when he hit where it hurt…

His mind flashed back to the first few days after he had 'removed Sherlock from the premises' of his home.

Mother and father had (of course) been driven almost to pieces with panic. The police had been summoned, and search parties had been sent out. All efforts to find Sherlock had proved futile naturally, and the parties had returned home.

Mycroft's parents had been most distraught, and had never fully recovered from the experience. Mrs Holmes was hit particularly hard, and had been unable to look at anything that even reminded her of the child without bursting into tears for almost a year afterwards.

But that didn't bother Mycroft. He was back on top of the Holmes food chain, and things were looking up immensely. He pulled a good show of being stricken by his brother's disappearance, and used the sympathies people gave him to regain the respect he had lost.

Keeping Sherlock locked away in his tower did have its negatives, but all in all it was the best option. Mycroft knew that the instant Sherlock left the tower, he would be the centre of attention again, and the thought made Mycroft's blood boil with rage.

But as far as Mycroft could see, his secret was safe. There was no way Sherlock could escape from the tower (at least, not without breaking his neck) and Mycroft wasn't planning on letting him go anytime soon. As long as Sherlock never managed to miraculously escape from the tower, no one would ever know where he was hidden.

* * *

John Watson's leg was playing up again.

He hated it profoundly. It did nothing but gratify him with a painful limp and cause him stress. His therapist reckoned it was psychosomatic, easily cured through intensive (and boring) therapy, and by going for long, energised walks through the countryside outside of London.

Don't ask where she got _that _idea.

John didn't give two hoots about walking, but Ella had been getting onto him recently and he was sick of it. He could still hear her voice whispering through his ears…

"You need to open your senses and come to terms with your PTSD. You must learn to _embrace _your inner tragedy and then, only then will you be able to combat your negative feelings.

Yeah, thanks_, I don't think_. Clearly he was paying for Fortune Telling, not therapy.

So he had (grudgingly) taken to catching a cab to the forest that lay on the outskirts of London and going for a walk along one of the trails.

Admittedly (and John **hated **to admit it), but… it was a rather calming experience. The forest was quiet and peaceful as compared to the bustling streets of London, which did wonders for John's mind. Ever since he had been invalided home from Afghanistan, he had been trying to find ways to calm his mind down, mostly due to the PTSD nightmares he kept experiencing…

John sighed and leaned against a tree, fiddling with the end of his jumper. Despite finally feeling free from the pressures Afghanistan had placed upon him, he was bored with civilian life, and desperately wished for some new sort of adventure to come and sweep him off his feet.

He wouldn't have minded a friend either. He was (and he could only admit this to himself) lonely. All of his friends from before the war had all but forgotten about him, he didn't want his sister's relationship offers and John had a difficult time building new relationships with people. But if the right person were just to come along…

John sighed and gave up on standing, instead choosing to sink down against the tree and wallow in his own self-pity.

He had never thought of himself as a lonely person, but now all his feelings were coming together and combating to form one solid expression of emotion. This one was clearly loneliness. Or a rare Afghanistan tropical disease…

No it was loneliness (with a hint of hunger, he hadn't eaten breakfast before leaving his bedsit).

As he sat by the tree, feeling bored, lonely and very sorry for himself, he suddenly heard a string of notes burst out over the trees before quieting again. John's head snapped up, all of his current emotions grinding to a halt.

What was that?

John strained to listen. The notes suddenly reanimated themselves and burst out in another unique tune. It was almost as though he could hear someone…

Playing a _violin…?_

The tune suddenly halted, before picking up again, this time as a sweet, sad, lonely tune. John's heart clenched in his chest at the sound, it was almost as though someone was narrating his emotions with music.

He stood up and listened. He wasn't imagining the tune, it was undeniably real. The question was, where was it coming from?

He had no idea. But being an army doctor and a naturally curious man, he wasn't afraid to find out.

He wandered off in the supposed direction of the song, stopping every few minutes to check if he was going in the right direction. The whole time, the music played on in a glorious (but still achingly sad) tune.

As he walked onwards, the music became louder, until he got to a particularly dark patch of trees. The image was unnerving, but the music was louder than ever, so John pushed through the undergrowth. He tangled and fought his way through the dark trees and shrubbery, before finally bursting out on the other side and back into the light.

He looked around an open glade, before he was struck dumb by what lay before him.

A tower. An incredibly tall, smooth, stone tower that had absolutely no business being in the middle of a forest.

And from a window at the top, he could hear a constant stream of beautiful music swirling through the air.

John grinned. His senses had landed him successful. And now that he was here, he was desperate to find out who was playing the gorgeous music.

He strolled over to the tower and wandered around the exterior, hoping to find some kind of entrance. But when his first search for a door came up to nil, he tried again. And again…

After walking around three times, it was clear. There was no door that led into the tower.

John was confused. His hearing clearly wasn't failing him, as he could still hear the beautiful music playing, and his sight was working fine, because what idiot could miss a tower smack bang in the middle of a forest?

After a long minutes worth of deliberation, he finally decided just to sit down near a tree and listen to the music for a while. It was so lovely that John couldn't bear to get up and leave. The music was so wonderful that John's brain lost focus. It was… John wasn't sure. He had always appreciated music, and this particular song… it sent shivers down his spine. John shut his eyes blissfully to shut out the rest of the world and just focus on the amazing violin.

For how long John sat there, he didn't know. He waited, listening to the music all day. Eventually, after many hours spent in pure bliss, he snapped out of his trance and noticed the sky was lit up in a brilliant red. It was evening now, and getting colder, but John would have been content listening to the musician all night. Yet he knew that whoever it was would eventually stop playing, and as soon as night fell the temperatures would too. John wasn't a big fan of freezing to death slowly, so with a sigh he got up, stretched his limbs and was rewarded with a blast of pins and needles from his sitting too long.

John took one last look up at the tower before he wandered back into the forest. Someone was up there, impossible as it may seem, and John intended to find out whom.

**Note: Hello readers! Hopefully everyone is enjoying the story so far! Now, this chapter was meant to be uploaded at 10:00 this morning. It is now 10:00 at night, and this chapter is only just being uploaded. This one has been agony to write, mainly because I didn't want to rush John's scene and his discovery. What do you think? Please drop a review and let me know, and continue to enjoy! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

John arrived home with the gorgeous music still playing in his mind. The next day, the music floated through his mind the entire day, morning to evening.

It was driving John insane. In all truth, he'd never heard violin playing so lovely before, and now that he had, he was desperate to return back to the tower and listen to it all over again.

There was also a certain shroud of mystery about the musician-whoever they were. What were they doing locked up in a door less tower? Who were they? John didn't even know if it was a man or a woman playing the tune.

But with all those factors circulating his mind, John couldn't help but return to the tower again the next day.

It took a few tries to find it. John found himself walking in circles, going in the wrong direction and getting hopelessly lost time and time again. Eventually though, luck decided that it would take his side, because he found the dark patch of greenery he had pushed through the other day to reach the tower.

He repeated the action again, twisting and pulling against the thicket, before finally catapulting out the other side and into the sunlight of the clearing.

There was silence in the tower, but John didn't let that bother him. He wandered over to the same tree he had sat by the day before and sat down again, waiting to see if the musician would begin playing again.

After about half an hour's worth of deliberation, John heard a beautiful note break out from the window of the tower, and his heart soared.

This time, the musician's music was happier. There was a light, atmospheric sound to it, a kind of joy that the music had certainly lacked the day before.

John shut his eyes in bliss and fell into a different world. The music seemed to lift his spirits in a way no other song could manage. There was a certain, beautiful empathy which sang out from the strings of the violin, and John couldn't help but adore it.

Eventually, he found himself in the same position he had been in the previous day. The sky turned blood red, and it began to get colder. John sighed, stretched and wandered off, now more desperate than ever to discover the identity of the musician in the tower.

* * *

"How are the walks going John?"

He was back in Ella's office. The fancy furnishings were uncomfortable and John's arse was already prickling with pins and needles.

"Fine, yeah" John replied, giving the perfect impression that he couldn't care less.

Ella began to talk again, but John lost concentration. His mind wandered back to the music he had heard. He was already desperate to hear it again, so much so that he couldn't stand it.

But why? John couldn't really say. The mystery shrouding the player certainly impacted on things, but there was something more than that. There was a certain effect that surrounded the music which made John crave it more, a drug that he couldn't control which swept through his system and left him dazed.

He needed to hear the music again. He couldn't sit here and listen to Ella drone on and on…

Oh yes. Reality check.

"…and you need to open your mind to truly experience the world around you…"

"Yep, sure. Thanks for your help today!" John forced a grin, before jumping up and grabbing his coat.

"John, I'm not finished" Ella glared at him.

"Yeah sure, send me the bill" John replied, before racing out the door and hailing a cab from the street.

He was going back to the tower, and no amount of psychiatrist help or _'sixth sense wisdom' _was going to make him change his mind.

* * *

John had a problem.

For two weeks-_two fucking weeks_- he had travelled back to the tower every day to listen to the gorgeous musician play the violin.

The music changed often. Some days it would be a joyful, light, thriving tune. Other days it would be the depressive, yet strangely lovely tune that John had heard the first day he had discovered the tower.

John was hooked on the glorious music. It was better than anything an addict could come up with, no matter how many products they could mix together. It was strangely intoxicating, a kind of swirling vortex of everything that could be placed together, only to form a deeply rich and addictive substance.

And John couldn't live without it.

After roughly a month of listening to the musician (and having no idea who was playing), there came a day were John was lounging against a tree, getting his daily (and much needed dose) of musical entertainment.

Out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly noticed a flash of movement over in the shadows of some nearby trees.

John didn't know why, but he quickly scrambled behind the tree and watched. He reckoned that it was probably just the army side of him acting on instinct, but something else told him an opinion from a different point of view. If there was something out there, then they (or possibility it) would be the first other living creature John had ever seen wander into the glade besides himself.

It turned out John had taken a good course of action. A second later, a man stepped out from the shrubbery. He was slightly overweight, dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, and was carrying an umbrella and basket under one arm.

But John's eyes were drawn to the man's own. They were cold, black and undoubtedly dangerous, as though there were two endlessly winding tunnels shooting down into the depths of his skull. The image made John shiver.

The man in the suit walked up to the foot of the tower, stopping only to brush himself off from the debris of the shrubbery. John watched as he raised a hand to his mouth and called out the words….

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

John waited, wondering if he was staring at a madman. His theory was quickly disproven when the musician silenced their song abruptly, and suddenly an abundance of glorious, silken hair tumbled from the window and landed in front of the suit wearing man on the ground.

John's mouth fell open in shock as he watched the man take the tresses in his hands and use them to climb up the wall of the tower. He watched as the man reached the window of the tower, before clambering inside, and then let his eyes follow the beautiful tresses as they were drawn back up into the tower.

John fell down against the tree in awe. He wondered if this was possibly a marvellous dream, but a quick knock of his head against the tree proved otherwise. He was wide awake, and now that he had an entrance point, he was desperate to see who lived in the tower.

He waited for what seemed like hours, until finally the glorious tresses were tossed out of the window again and slipped towards the ground. John watched as the man in the suit descended them, before straightening his tie and disappearing back into the trees.

John didn't waste a moment. He jumped up and raced towards the foot of the tower. He had no idea if his theory would work or not, but he was determined to try his luck.

* * *

Sherlock was leaning over his lab. He had been trying for days to see the results of C025tyX (a top secret chemical he had managed to convince Mycroft to bring him) mixed with Solution X (even the top members of the government need passes signed by every member of the UN and a personal meeting with the president before they got their hands on _that_).

While he was in the middle of testing out his theory (the expectant result was an acidic mixture which smelt like strawberries and could be mistaken for icing) when he heard a call from below his window.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock cursed at his brother's reckless wish to re-enter the tower. However, he knew better than to disobey, so he sighed, looped his hair over the side of the window, and let it tumble to the ground.

* * *

John waited, deliberating for a moment to see if this was really the best idea. He was desperate to find out the identity of the man (he was almost certain it was a male now, what kind of woman had the name 'Sherlock?') in the tower.

He cupped his hands (to increase the volume of his voice) and called out…

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

John held his breath waiting, then sighed in a strange mixture of awe and relief when the beautiful tresses tumbled out of the window and fell to the ground in front of him with a whisper. He reached forward and lightly grasped the hair.

His mind clouded over at the touch; never in his life had he felt anything so soft in all of his life. He couldn't resist gently running the hair through his hands, feeling the soft, chocolate-brown locks as they slipped through his fingers. Then, as gently as possible so not to hurt the person on the receiving end, he began to climb up, wondering what sight would greet him when he reached the top.

* * *

Sherlock was surprised at his brother's touch. Usually Mycroft had a painful, tight grip on his hair, but today his touch felt feather light.

Sherlock couldn't really say what it was, but there almost seemed to be a certain level of reassurance coming from the hands that were climbing his hair. He couldn't help but sigh at the feeling; it felt like someone was lightly brushing his hair with their hands.

He relaxed and closed his eyes blissfully for a moment, secretly wishing that his brother would be as gentle as this more often.

* * *

John felt that if heaven existed, he was in it. He could almost imaging spinning around amongst the stars that dotted the sky, a level of never ending bliss in his heart.

He slowly climbed the tower, hand over hand, feeling the gorgeous tresses slip through his fingers. Despite the constant pain that had plagued his shoulder and leg ever since returning from Afghanistan, it seemed as though those elements didn't exsist anymore. He was lost in his own world of comfort, a world which he wished he could never leave again.

He cast his glance ahead of him, at the window which he was rapidly approaching. Soon he would meet the person in the tower; soon he would see the face that was behind the beautiful music he had spent week after week listening to.

John quickened his pace, now more desperate than ever to reach the window of the tower and meet the mysterious musician at the top.

* * *

_**Sherlock**__ was wondering what was taking his brother so long to reach the window. After fifteen years of practise, he was sure his brother would have a little experience by now at climbing his hair, and despite the gloriously gentle touch Mycroft seemed to have taken it upon himself to bestow today, Sherlock was anxious to get the job done…_

_**John**__ was nearing the window now, coming closer and closer to knowing the identity of the musician who had found a way to touch his heart for so many weeks with the melodies he played. However, he was not the most experienced when it came to climbing architectural structures, and certainly not by the use of someone else's hair. But he was almost there, and he certainly wasn't going to give up now…_

In the exact same moment that John reached the windowsill, Sherlock whirled around to throw some kind of dieting insult at Mycroft. Instead, he spun around and found himself staring into John's deep azure eyes.

Light blue, almost grey eyes met deep, rich, ocean blue ones. From the instant their eyes locked, both men's breath was taken away, for entirely different reasons.

And in the instant Sherlock's brain caught up with his senses, he gave a strangled gasp and pulled away from the golden haired man, his grey-blue eyes wide.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock panicked. His eyes were wide with a strange mix of awe, curiosity and pure terror. It had been fifteen years since he had seen another human being, so to have one sitting on his windowsill was unimaginable.

John was also in awe. He had finally seen the face behind the music, and the experience was fascinating. He had never seen a man who was so pale, with such sparkling eyes and such _hair… _He glanced at the beautiful curls which fell down the man's back, and smiled.

Sherlock didn't smile back. There was such a stone cold uncomfortable look on his face that John lost his smile immediately.

"Are you… ok?" John questioned gently, stepping down from the window and straightening up.

Sherlock took a step backwards as John advanced towards him, and then another, and another, until he stumbled and fell onto his bed. He had no idea why he was so nervous; it wasn't as though he had never seen another human being before. But fifteen years…

In a childish impulse, Sherlock wrapped his hair around himself in a protective cocoon and buried his face in the silken tresses, trying to get his thoughts together.

John realised the issue, and stepped over again. He knelt a few feet away from him and spoke softly.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to scare you…"

"I'm not _scared_" Sherlock protested quietly into his curls.

A smile danced across John's features "I'm John-John Watson.-What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes" Sherlock muttered, drawing his tresses closer yet still feeling exposed.

John smiled gently "Sherlock. Well Sherlock, I…" he fought for the right words "this will seem… impulsive of me, but I've been visiting here for weeks now and…"

Sherlock lifted his head and looked properly at John. John blushed at how absurd he sounded.

"I've been listening to you play your violin" he continued "your skills are amazing, better than anything I've ever heard, and the music you play is so beautiful, sometimes so joyful and other times so sad, I just couldn't resist listening…" he bit his lip and looked down.

Sherlock blinked, before cautiously unwinding his hair from himself and looking properly at John.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he questioned.

John's head snapped up "what?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated.

John blinked, a confused look spreading across his face.

"Afghanistan… how did you…?"

Sherlock grinned "you have a psychosomatic limp, a scarred shoulder and an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist is guessing you have PTSD, but I disagree, you seem like the kind of man who would thrive on adventure. You're living in a flat credited for you by the army, you currently hold no stable job and you have a brother who is worried about you, but you won't go to him for help. Possibly because he has just broken up with his wife, more likely because he is an alcoholic. You are a trained army medic, and you also have skills in the area of weapons and sports such as rugby and you played the clarinet in school. _Am I wrong_?"

John stared up at the long haired man, a look of shock and awe spread across his features.

"No…" John swallowed "no, you're right. You're absolutely right…"

"I knew it!"

"Except..."

"What?"

"Well actually, Harry is short for Harriet."

"Oh!" Sherlock nodded "well, in that case, your _sister _is an alcoholic, who has just broken up with her wife, and is increasingly concerned about you, but you refuse at your own will to partake in his hospitality. Am I right now?"

John nodded, looking astounded.

"Good to know" Sherlock grinned, feeling much more relaxed.

John stared at him for a few more moments. How on earth could a man he had never met in his life know so much about him from a single glance?

John smiled softly "that was… amazing."

Sherlock looked at him shocked "was it?"

"Yes" John grinned "it was utterly fantastic."

Sherlock blushed, absentmindedly stroking his soft tresses "that's not what Mycroft usually says."

"What does Mycroft usually say?" John questioned.

"Piss off"

John just smiled. Sherlock couldn't help returning one, although it was directed at his curls. John inched slightly closer.

"Is Mycroft your father?"

"My brother" Sherlock explained.

"The man in the suit?"

"The fat one? Yes, that's the one."

"He's not _that_ fat."

"He is if he's climbing up your hair" Sherlock rolled his eyes "constantly pulling, tugging, straining…" Sherlock stopped abruptly. He suddenly lost his smile, and in turn John moved a little bit closer.

"How long have you been in this tower?"

Sherlock blushed "fifteen years, ever since I was twelve."

John frowned "why?"

Sherlock let out a dry laugh "because apparently, according to Mycroft, the world is a dangerous place full of people who would do nothing but bring me harm." He lifted his head and gazed into John's eyes "you're the first other person I've met apart from him for fifteen years."

John was astounded "you mean… you mean you've been locked up here for fifteen years, no company, no contact with anyone…"

Sherlock nodded, his gaze now directed back at his silken locks.

"There's no doors here…" John began slowly.

"Mycroft bricked them up" Sherlock sniffed "to stop me from ever trying to leave."

When he lifted his head again, John was shocked to see tears forming in the side of his eyes.

"But…" John fought for the right words "surely somebody must be looking for you…"

"Mycroft's probably convinced them I'm dead" Sherlock blinked desperately to avoid weeping like a child in front of John. He was failing however, so he jumped up and went to stand by the window, taking a moment to wipe his eyes on his cuff.

John tried to imagine what it must be like to be locked up every day and night, but found he could not. There are certain things that cannot be imagined, and this was a fine example.

"But Sherlock…" John began again "you do know the world isn't dangerous…"

"I know!" Sherlock yelled, spinning around to face John "I know it's not dangerous, everything Mycroft tells me is a lie!" he sniffed and sat down on the windowsill "he only keeps me here because he's jealous of me, I can't help that. If I could change things I would, but he's too set on one frame of mind to ever see things differently! I hate him, and I hate this god awful, wretched tower!"

Sherlock tried to catch his breath, desperately blinking, but that didn't stop tears dribbling down his face and landing in his beautiful tresses.

John felt his heart clench. Sherlock was clearly a genius, clearly bored and clearly sick of being alive. Without thinking twice, John walked over, knelt down in front of him and took his hands.

"Have you ever had a friend?" John questioned.

Sherlock shook his head. And John's heart felt as though it was breaking in two. But he shook off the feeling and whispered.

"Could I be the first?"

Sherlock lifted his head, revealing to John his tear filled eyes. John felt a sudden surge of protection course through him. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hands.

"Yes" Sherlock agreed softly.

John smiled, and in what he hoped was a friendly gesture, ran Sherlock's soft tresses through his fingers, letting them slip back into place with a whisper, like water trickling softly down a river of silken curls. Sherlock absentmindedly leant into John's touch.

"You were so much gentler than Mycroft" he breathed.

"Doing what?"

"Climbing my hair"

John smiled "that's good to know."

"It was like you were brushing my hair with a golden comb" Sherlock realised he was muttering nonsense, but it somehow made sense when spoken out loud "it felt as though an angel was kissing it, or the wind was whispering through it…"

"You are quite the poet aren't you?" John laughed.

Sherlock shrugged, but a smile skipped across his features "I suppose I have a way with words."

* * *

The pair stayed sitting on the windowsill, talking for hours and hours. As the stars began to dance in the night sky, John finally got up and stretched.

"I should go now" he smiled gently.

Sherlock instantly jumped up and grasped John's hands.

"No, please stay" he begged, his eyes growing childlike and sad.

John smiled "no Sherlock, I can't. I have to go…"

Sherlock knew he was being ridiculous, but John was the first person he had met in fifteen years. He didn't want him to leave, not now, not yet…

He pulled his tresses out of John's reach and crossed his arms.

John rolled his eyes and gave Sherlock **a look.**

You know the kind of look that your parents give you when they know you're lying? Or the look a teacher gives a student when they forget to do their homework? Sherlock was copping that look right now, only maximised to the power of infinitum (John_ had_ been in the army).

Finally Sherlock sighed, wandered over to the window, hung his hair over the hook and let his glorious locks slip down to the ground.

John couldn't help but smile at the despondent look on Sherlock's face. He reached out and tilted Sherlock's chin so that he was looking straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"I promise I'll come back" John smiled softly.

Sherlock grinned and his whole face lit up "you do?"

John nodded "yes, I'll come tomorrow afternoon, if you want me to."

Sherlock jumped up and down in a fit of excitement "yes! Oh John, it's Christmas! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

John grinned and waited for Sherlock to calm down, before slipping back down his tresses and landing at the foot of the tower. With one final wave to Sherlock, he disappeared back into the trees and made his way home.

Sherlock watched him leave, sighing in awe at the strange (but unquestionably wonderful) events of the day, before he hastily began to draw up his hair.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, Sherlock woke up with the memory of John's visit still playing in his mind.

His heart soared with the memory. He thought of the way John had spoken to him kindly, in a way that Mycroft had never. Mycroft's words always had an edge of ice to them, whereas John's words had always seemed genuine.

Sherlock lay back on his bed and sighed. He sincerely hoped that John would stay true to his word and come back to the tower.

Sherlock was in a world of his own when he heard Mycroft calling to him outside.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock sighed, before dragging himself off of the bed and looping his tresses over the hook and letting them fall towards his brother.

Mycroft grasped Sherlock's curls, before yanking them and beginning to haul himself up.

Sherlock groaned in pain and grasped his scalp, praying that Mycroft wouldn't pull all his hair out. Sherlock let out a short whimper, already longing for John's gentle touch.

When Mycroft finally hauled himself up to the window, Sherlock raised his hands to his hair massaged his aching scalp.

Mycroft rolled his eyes "Sherlock, whatever you are implying, it will have no effect. Believe me; I have heard enough of your insults to last a lifetime…"

Sherlock sighed, letting the matter drop. He didn't want to prolong Mycroft's visit, not if John was planning on visiting later.

So he forced himself to sit down and quietly listen to Mycroft's droning voice, going on and on, only keeping himself safe by remembering John's visit.

He remembered the way John had looked at him when they had first locked eyes. He remembered the way John had smiled at him, in a way that Sherlock was so unused to seeing (Mycroft rarely smiled, and when he did it was always cold and hurtful, like the rest of him). John's smile had been so wonderfully kind, and there was a general sort of kindness which surrounded him and altogether made him an instantly likeable person.

Sherlock remembered the way John had spoken to him again, so kindly, so warmly, so passionately, so intelligently and so sweetly. He had spoken to Sherlock as though he was the greatest friend he had, a great treasure which he loved and cared for. And Sherlock had loved every instant.

As Mycroft droned on and on, Sherlock smiled to himself and remembered every moment of yesterday, feeling as though a glorious sunlight had spread across his heart.

* * *

Finally, after Mycroft had finally taken it upon himself to leave, Sherlock waited impatiently for John to arrive.

As it grew dark, with still no sign of John, Sherlock still began to feel nervous. What if John didn't come back? What if he didn't mean anything he had said? What if everything with Sherlock was a one-time stand and he never wanted to see him again…?

Sherlock panicked. What if John was never coming back? Sherlock didn't think he could live without John, he couldn't go back to way he was without John…

"Sherlock!" a voice called out "Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock hesitated a moment "J…John?"

"Sherlock!" John called again "it's me! Let down your hair!"

Sherlock let out a great 'pwhoof!' of relief, his panic flooding out of him, before he raced over to let his tresses tumble down to the ground.

He felt John's feather light touch, his ever so gentle occasional tugs, his glorious ascent, not rushing and resulting in incredible pain, nor did he go slowly, relentlessly tugging and prolonging the pain.

But Sherlock almost wished John could climb his hair forever. If only his tresses were a never ending abundance of beautiful locks, constantly allowing John to forever ascend the tower.

But he knew if John climbed his hair forever, there would never be any form of communication between them. The thought was enough to make Sherlock shudder in horror, so let began to pull up his tresses to meet his friend again as soon as he could.

As soon John reached the window, Sherlock pulled him in and embraced him. It was against all of his greater morals, but Sherlock couldn't help himself. John was the first person he had hugged in fifteen years, and it was a wonderful feeling.

John laughed as he fell into Sherlock's embrace.

"Hello there" he grinned "did you miss me?"

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder "I was… afraid you weren't returning."

John held Sherlock at arms-length "Sherlock, you thought I wasn't coming back?"

Sherlock nodded feebly, feeling embarrassed.

"Oh Sherlock" John whispered, stroking Sherlock's silken curls "I made you a promise didn't I?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling as John brought Sherlock's curls to his cheek.

"I promised I would come back" Sherlock smiled as John ran his hands through gently through his locks "I've never broken a promise, I won't break this one."

Sherlock believed him, and told him so, in the only way he knew how.

"Well… that thing you did, it was… good."

John smiled "good?"

"Very good"

The pair of them sat down together, John seated on a great armchair, Sherlock knelt by his side. For hours and hours they talked of everything they could think of and more.

As the night wore on, the pair grew more and more at home with each other, they gradually grew more intimate. Sherlock let his hair tumble over his shoulder and lifted it onto John's lap. As they spoke, John ran his hands through the hair, letting the tresses tumble through his fingers and back onto his lap, and softly stroking the luscious curls.

Eventually though, the sun broke out over the horizon, and Sherlock grudgingly realised that John would have to leave.

He gently pulled his hair off of John's lap. John gave a pout of protest.

"You have to go now" Sherlock explained sadly "Mycroft will be here in a few hours."

"Surely we could explain to Mycroft about…" John gestured between the two of them "us?"

Sherlock shook his head. He knew Mycroft too well, and knew he would turn wild with rage if he knew Sherlock had a visitor.

"We can't" Sherlock sighed "Mycroft would do terrible, horrible, unspeakable things to you. I refuse to let him harm you."

John clutched Sherlock's hands tightly, staring deeply into his eyes.

"You don't deserve this" he whispered "any of this. I can't see why anyone who is as spectacular as you deserves to be hidden away from the world like this."

Sherlock felt his heart soar at John's words. To know John truly cared for him was a blessing beyond conceivable standards.

"I can't help it that I'm fantastic" he joked.

John swatted his arm jokingly "hey, don't ruin the moment."

Sherlock smiled sadly "I refuse to allow you to endure any of the pain and suffering Mycroft could place upon you" he murmured "our relationship must remain a secret; otherwise we'll both get hurt. I could never stand by and watch anyone harm you, least of all the fat lummox I'm supposably related to."

John grinned, before getting up and leading Sherlock over to the window, before looping his tresses over the hook.

"You'll be free one day" John smiled gently "I promise you."

And before either of them could comprehend what was going on, John stretched up and kissed Sherlock's lips.

It was a short kiss, really more of a loving peck, but Sherlock felt his heart soar, his brain explode and stars burst out around him.

John realised what he had just done, and stumbled back in shock. The two of them stared at each other, various flickering emotions of shock, surprise, embarrassment and anxiety flickering across their faces.

"Well…" John eventually broke the silence "goodnight…"

"Goodnight…" Sherlock repeated, still too much in awe of John's action to say anything else.

John climbed down (well really, more so slid) down Sherlock's tresses, before heading off into the dark undergrowth.

Sherlock raised a finger to his mouth and lightly traced his lips. A smile broke out across his features before he could stop it. Despite the millions of questions that were flooding across his brain, there was one thought and emotion which stood out in his mind.

_Thought:__ John kissed me._

_Emotion:__ …Happiness_

He was _happy…_


	8. Chapter 8

John lay awake in his bed the rest of the night, tossing, turning and deliberating about what he had just done.

He had _kissed _Sherlock Holmes. A man he had only known for _two days. _John had _kissed_ him.

Ok, it was a peck, but John had felt a swell of emotion in his heart when he had bestowed it, a kind that just didn't seem to form in the boundaries of friendship.

And what emotion _had_ he felt? John ticked them off in his mind, coming up with happiness, comfort, sweetness, love…

Love?

That couldn't be right. How could he possibly love a man he'd known for two days?

John sighed. He could feel a headache coming on and he knew that was the last thing he needed at this moment in time.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, but Sherlock's face instantly floated behind his pupils in the darkness and threw him awake again.

John rubbed at his eyes and cursed. He gave up on trying to sleep and instead went to stand by his window. He lightly traced a hand over his lips, and unconsciously smiled at the memory of Sherlock's lips pressed against his own.

John sighed. He didn't want to jump to the conclusion that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He had always been attracted to women…

Hadn't he?

John groaned. His emotions were in too much of a jumble right now to even consider if he had been heterosexual his whole life.

He needed a second opinion. Someone who could give him a hand in working out his emotions… He picked up his phone and without giving any thought as to what time it was, called the only person who would know what to do…

"…lo?"

"Hello?"

"Who's calling?"

John breathed out "Lestrade it's me, John."

"Oh, John" Lestrade coughed "bit early isn't it?"

"Um…" John glanced at the clock "sorry about this, but… well, I'm in a bit of a dilemma here…"

"Ok… how can I help you?"

John took a deep breath "Lestrade... I think I might be in love with somebody."

"Oh really?" Lestrade sounded genuinely pleased "that's great! So, who's the lucky lady?"

John cursed inside his head "actually Lestrade, it's not a woman…"

There was silence down the other end of the phone "…Oh…"

John sighed "I understand it might come as a bit of a shock to you…"

"No!" Lestrade called "no John, I haven't got a problem with you…" he paused, searching for the right words "…liking blokes. It's all the same to me mate, I'm happy for you!"

He sounded so genuine that John just about burst into tears.

"But John" Lestrade cleared his throat "mate, you do realise that… well, I'm married and all…"

"No!" John called out, mortified "no Lestrade, it's not you, believe me!"

"Ok then!" Lestrade breathed out "I was worried that was going to get complicated. So, what's the problem?"

"It's just, well… I didn't think I was gay…"

"Well, I didn't think you were gay either!"

"I mean, I've like women my whole life. I can't just start liking men now…"

"Yes you can"

John paused "…how?"

"John" Lestrade answered "you liked women before, you like men now. What difference does it make?"

"But, what if I'm wrong? I can't go back to liking women…"

"John, sexuality is not black and white" Lestrade explained "there is always a grey area. You liked women before, but now you're in love with a man. But if you change your mind, you can always go back to liking women. You're not signing a contract John, you love who you love, and… are you crying?"

"No" John sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve "just… thank you Lestrade, I needed that."

"Not a problem mate" Lestrade grinned "all the best, and let me know how it goes!"

John thanked Lestrade again, before he hung up the phone. He fell back onto his bed and breathed out calmly. He only had one emotion now, and that was excitement. He couldn't wait to go back to the tower and see Sherlock again…

* * *

Sherlock sat idly on the windowsill, combing his hair.

He couldn't sleep. The only thing on his mind was John; the only words on his lips were the effects of the kiss, which was still idly lingering, tasting sweet, joyful and so much like John…

Despite how happy he was, Sherlock couldn't help but feel nervous. He had never before experienced the emotions that he was feeling now, and the new experience was something that made him feel both a mixture of terrified and fearless at varying point.

He had always considered himself sociopathic, asexual, the sort of person who would reject another instantly. He had only lived in Mycroft's existence for fifteen years, but now with John in his life, everything felt unique, different, alive…

Sherlock thought about Mycroft now, and shuddered. He couldn't bear to think about the things he may do to John if he knew about his influence on Sherlock's life.

Sherlock didn't care about himself; in his opinion Mycroft had already made his life a misery. But John was the only ray of sunshine in his dark life, and Sherlock refused to let Mycroft destroy him.

Sherlock didn't know how he felt about John, but to his opinion there was only one word that could possibly describe his attraction.

Love…

He loved John Watson. Sherlock was almost 100% sure of that. He had never felt attracted to anyone before, but now that he had truly experienced the feeling, it was something he never wanted to leave him. A sort of drug which compelled him, hyped him, a kind he couldn't live without. He knew he would be nothing without his love for John Watson.

Sherlock leant against the wall of the windowsill, staring out over the world as the sun broke over the horizon. He wished that night would hurry up and fall so that John could return.

* * *

After bearing another one of Mycroft's visits (subject: 200 cakes in 200 minutes) Sherlock was more than ready to have John visit.

He didn't have to wait long. Within minutes of Mycroft's departure, he heard John's voice call to him.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock's stomach did a flip in a mixture of joy and anxiety. He tossed his hair down to John, who gently took his hair and began to climb.

Sherlock tried to relax and enjoy the feeling of John climbing his hair, but he was having trouble. He was terrified now of the way John might react to his confession, he wasn't even sure if he had the guts to confess.

When John reached the windowsill and entered Sherlock's chamber, both of them began speaking at once.

"Sherlock, about yesterday…"

"John, I must speak with you about yesterday's events…"

"I didn't intend to be so forward…"

"I hope my reaction didn't embarrass you…"

"You'll have to forgive me…"

"Please forgive me…"

"But I must tell you…"

"I believe it's important you know…"

"_I love you"_

Both men spoke their last line in perfect unison. The pair instantly stopped speaking and stared deeply into each other's eyes, pupils filled with a strange mixture of joy and surprise. After a moments silence, they both burst into tears of laughter.

As their laughter subdued, the pair of them sat side by side on the window ledge. Sherlock looped his hair over the hook at the window and let it tumble to the ground. For a moment, they watched the tresses blow gently in the breeze, before Sherlock took both of John's hands.

"John…" he hesitated "did you… did you really mean what you said?"

The two stared into each other's eyes. There was a kind of mutual understanding between them, and Sherlock felt a rush of love spread through his heart. But he needed John's word before he even considered letting himself get carried away.

"Well, did you?" Sherlock asked again, feeling increasingly nervous.

Instead of answering, John leant over and captured Sherlock's lips in a kiss.

* * *

_Sherlock_ felt his heart soar. Before his brain could force him to change his mind, he leant in and gently kissed John back. John's lips were softer than he'd imagined and fitted perfectly against his own.

_John_ was surprised when Sherlock opened his lips slightly, allowing for a deeper kiss, and John more than happily obliged. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock's hands wrapping around his neck, and John took the movement as allowance for him to bury his hands in Sherlock's stunning chocolate tresses. He marvelled at the feeling of Sherlock's glorious, soft hair and his incredibly soft lips.

_Sherlock_ was in heaven. He was sure he had died in the past few moments and quickly floated up there. He had never known bliss like this to exist in his life, and now it seemed as though everything that he could possibly want in life was being handed to him on a silver platter. And what's more, he could feel the ice that had enclosed his heart for so many years, slowly melting away into oblivion.

He knew he was kissing John senseless, and was getting the same reaction from John. If it was possible he would have stayed like this forever, safe in John's arms for the rest of his days.

Eventually, after a few minutes, John gently drew away from him and smiled, his blue eyes shining and his cheeks flushed. Sherlock leaned in and the pair rested their foreheads together. John cupped Sherlock's face in one hand.

"Does that answer your question?" he asked gently.

"More than enough" Sherlock smiled.

* * *

For the rest of the night, the two were in eternal bliss. They spent hours kissing, touching, stroking and holding each other. By the end of the night, as the sun broke out over the horizon, they both lay on Sherlock's bed. John had Sherlock's hand held in his own, and was kissing it passionately.

"I love you" Sherlock whispered.

"You've said that already" John grinned, planting another kiss on Sherlock's knuckle.

"I know" Sherlock smiled gently "I just… I'll never tire of hearing those words."

A great smile spread across John's face "and neither will I."

Sherlock held John close to him, softly stroking John's soft golden hair.

"John… I always wished I had a friend, one that would last my whole life through…" Sherlock hesitated.

John sat up. He took in Sherlock's dusty blush, his shining eyes, and his tumbling locks.

"Go on…" John smiled gently.

"John, I can consider you nothing less than the greatest man I have ever known" Sherlock whispered in return.

The pair embraced again, letting the true meaning of those words enclose them and keep them comfortable. Sherlock didn't want to be sociopathic, didn't want to examine his perfect hatred for the world as he had done for so many years. He just wanted John, and that was all. A simple desire and a profound wish.

He knew it was against every nature he stood for, and every sociopathic nature he possessed, but Sherlock wanted John. He desired John's love. He _needed _John. He craved John's love and affection, craved his approval and adoration.

John was clearly thinking the same thing, because he suddenly brought Sherlock's mouth to his lips, and gave him the attentive love he so desperately desired.

"I love you" John whispered "I'll do anything for you, and I promise that I'll set you free one day..."

"John" Sherlock whispered "as far as I'm concerned, you already have."


	9. Chapter 9

**WARNING: This chapter will feature scenes which involve sexual advances made without the subjects consent in a family based situation. If that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, you might prefer not to read it, and I completely understand. If you choose not to read this chapter, then fear not, the next chapter will still make sense. So please consider carefully if you feel comfortable with this sort of thing!**

Sherlock was in seventh heaven. He and John had been dancing around each other for weeks now, kissing, stroking, touching and experimenting with each other, working out their likes and dislikes, what worked and what didn't.

Sherlock still possessed his virginity, and he was keen on keeping it for the exact right moment. He loved how John was so understanding, how he was so loving, compassionate and so wonderfully gentle. Sherlock, having never before experienced any of these emotions before, was in the middle of a new and unique situation every night. John always took things slowly, never going over Sherlock's boundaries, and Sherlock loved him for it. In more senses than one, John was the perfect lover.

It was the middle of the night. John had left an hour or so ago, after a brilliant two hours of necking like there was no tomorrow (Sherlock had gotten carried away) and now Sherlock was lying back on his bed, still remembering the way John's tongue had swirled around his neck possessively, delicately claiming all the skin it could find…

"_Sherlock! Let down your hair!"_

Sherlock snapped out of his stupor and directed his gaze towards the window. Dragging himself off of his bed and over to the window. Below, he saw Mycroft standing, swaying gently in the night air.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned "what on earth are you doing?"

"Let down your hair!" Mycroft called "I don't have all night!"

Sherlock reluctantly lowered his tresses to Mycroft, who grabbed them and began hauling himself up.

Sherlock grabbed his scalp and fought the urge to shriek. He had never known Mycroft to pull his hair so hard. He instead whimpered and put up with the pain until Mycroft finally hauled himself through the window and into the tower.

He began to straighten himself up, but stumbled and fell into Sherlock, laughing the whole time. Sherlock sniffed and smelt the unmistakable stench of…

"Mycroft, you're drunk!" he yelled, pushing Mycroft away from him.

Mycroft staggered and fell into the wall of the tower.

"I've had one glass…" Mycroft burped "make that three…" he sniffed "ok, maybe six…"

Sherlock shuddered and began to loop his hair over the hook again "get out of here Mycroft; I don't want you present while you're drunk!"

"I don't think so Sherlock…"

Mycroft suddenly gained control of his movements and grabbed Sherlock hands which were looping his hair. Sherlock struggled, but Mycroft was stronger and held his grasp.

He wrenched Sherlock's hair off of the window hook, before dragging him over to his bed.

Sherlock struggled, but Mycroft held him down. Sherlock hissed and spat, shrieking constantly **"let-go-of-**_**me**_**!"**

To his horror, Mycroft bent down and planted a kiss onto his lips. Not the delicate, comforting kiss John bestowed upon him, nor the passionate, loving kiss John gifted him with in a more heated moment.

This kiss was rough, booze filled and disturbing. It made Sherlock's skin crawl, and he desperately tried to thrust Mycroft off.

Mycroft ignored his escape attempts. Instead, he grasped Sherlock's tresses and tied them to the bedpost.

Sherlock still tried to kick away, but Mycroft leant down and straddled him, leaving furious bite marks on his neck.

"GET OFF!" Sherlock screamed "GET OFF! GET OFF! GET OFF!"

There were tears rolling down his cheeks now, but Mycroft payed him no heed, instead choosing to rip open his shirt and expose the skin there. Sherlock lay back as buttons flew everywhere, still withering furiously, choking on his own tears and trying to shake off Mycroft, who was busy attacking his chest with sloppy kisses.

Mycroft reached even lower, before stealthily unzipping Sherlock's trousers, grinning up at Sherlock like a madman.

"What a beautiful body you have my dear" Mycroft grinned.

"GET OFF MYCROFT!" Sherlock half wept, half screamed.

"Wrong answer" Mycroft smiled "the correct one is, 'all the better to indulge you with.' Never mind that though, I'll have my prize either way…"

He grabbed Sherlock's boxers and pulled them down, exposing Sherlock's manhood. Sherlock desperately tried to somehow cover himself up.

"My, you are _enormous_" Mycroft smirked "I don't know how I'm going to fit all of that in my mouth…"

That was when Sherlock snapped. Something in his head told him '_**fight. Fight with all of your power. Don't let him win…**__"_

Sherlock reached over to the bedside table, and blindly felt for a weapon he could use. In his haste, he managed to grab an empty glass.

Mycroft's mouth was mere centimetres away from his cock; his lips parted greedily, practically drooling all over Sherlock.

And in an impulsive moment, Sherlock brought the empty glass down hard on Mycroft's hand.

There was a brilliant spurt of crimson blood as Mycroft sprang up, giving a shriek of pain. Sherlock used the moment to pull his trousers back up and free his hair from the bedpost.

Mycroft's hand was a fountain of blood. He was cursing at the top of his lungs, staring at Sherlock with a look of pure fury in his eyes.

Sherlock grasped a shard of glass and brandished it in Mycroft's face.

"Leave" he hissed "or I will slit your throat, I really will!"

Mycroft cursed again, but he made his way over to the window, caused Sherlock pure agony as he scrambled back down his hair, and then disappeared into the trees.

Sherlock fell down onto the windowsill. The shard of glass fell from his hand and hit the floor in a clatter.

Sherlock watched his brother disappear, before leaning against the windowsill and bursting into tears again.

He had never felt more violated in his life. He wondered what could have happened if Mycroft had managed to go further than he already had…

Through his tears, Sherlock found himself sobbing John's name. He needed John now. John would never violate him in the disgusting way Mycroft had…

And as the night turned into daylight, Sherlock's tears still flowed on. He knew he had to leave this hellish tower, or else…

Sherlock couldn't even bear to think of the results.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft didn't arrive back at the tower that day. Had he, he would have found Sherlock, still weeping against the wall of his tower.

Sherlock didn't know what else to do. He had never been in a situation like that before. Never one which had made him feel so worthless, so defenseless... he felt his blood boil, but at the same time an uncontrollable sadness ripped through him. He _couldn't_ stop the tears that came to his eyes. He _couldn't_ control the emotions which surrounded him. And he hated the fact.

Throughout the course of the day, Sherlock was constantly crying on and off. When he wasn't, he was in fear about what Mycroft might do to him, what John would say, how he would react…

He knew John wouldn't turn away from him, never blame him. John wasn't the sort of man to jump to conclusions, and he would undoubtedly trust Sherlock. But how could he possibly tell John what had happened?

* * *

That night, as the sky began to turn dark, Sherlock was still half crying, half panicking and altogether in a frightened and vulnerable state. He had never been vulnerable in his life, and the new, sickening experience made him feel sick right to the core of his stomach. He was desperate for his lover and his compassion, to hear John's words of reassurance.

As though his prayers were to be answered, he heard John's voice calling out to him.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock still wept as he let his hair down to John. For once he couldn't even indulge in John climbing his tresses.

When John reached the window, he instantly took in Sherlock's tears, and a horrified expression flew across his face.

"Sherlock, my love, what's wrong?!"

Sherlock choked on his words, cursing mentally as he tried to explain the frightening and scarring experience "M…my…Mycroft…" Sherlock spluttered and coughed, letting a few more tears fall from his eyes "tried to…

John grasped his hands "what did he do to you, my love?"

Sherlock wept "h…he tried to have his w…way with m…me!"

John's eyes grew wide "he did _WHAT?"_

"T…tried to have s…sex with m…me…"

Sherlock couldn't do it. The bitter words said enough. His brain went into lockdown, his mind went blank, his reality disappeared and his common-sense dispatched itself. Sherlock turned away from John, covered his eyes and wept.

John's eyes grew wild with rage. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone trying to harm _his_ Sherlock. To see his usually confident and intelligent lover being reduced to a sniveling, frightened being made anger course through his veins.

"I'll kill him" he hissed "I'll fucking kill him!"

"John…" Sherlock began-his mind snapping back into focus-but John was furious.

"Who does he fucking think he is? If he thinks he can go around…"

"John he was drunk!" Sherlock cried "please John, we have to think rationally…"

"…attacking people, he's got another FUCKING THOUGHT COMING!"

Sherlock glanced up and noticed tears forming in John's eyes as well.

"J…John?"

John wavered undoubtedly. He knew he had to try and be strong; after all it wasn't him who had been sexually assaulted. But all he wanted to do was hold Sherlock and cry with him. To think someone had come so close to hurting the man he loved…

"Oh Sherlock…" John whispered, taking Sherlock hands and kneeling in front of him "I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry…"

Sherlock blinked and knelt down next to John.

"I don't understand… what are you sorry for?"

"For not being there to protect you" John's voice cracked "I'm sorry this had to happen to you…"

He took a deep breath, before he wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He cupped his Sherlock's face, kissing him one, two, three times, before resting their foreheads together.

"We've got to get you out of here" John whispered, softly stroking Sherlock's curls "you're not safe…" he pulled him close and whispered "I refuse to let anyone harm you."

Sherlock sniffed. "But how?" he asked, speaking gently into John's neck.

"There has to be a way…" John murmured.

The two of them sat down on the windowsill. John couldn't help but run his hands through Sherlock's glorious hair. Sherlock visibly relaxed at the act of passion, letting his tresses tumble over his shoulder to him.

Such beautiful tresses they were as well. Strong, supportive, lovely and tangled, just like the man they adorned. They always looked perfect, and they never became greasy or otherwise in desperate need of hygienic attention...

And John absolutely loved them. On anyone else such a gorgeous abundance of tumbling curls would look ridiculous, but on Sherlock, they looked… right.

Which is why John could hardly bear to suggest his next idea.

"I suppose we could… cut your hair…"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide.

"Certainly not!" he cried "not my hair John, I love my hair!"

"Sherlock, your hair is beautiful, but in time it will be just as long as it is now…"

"No!" Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing madly, looking close to tears again "please John, my hair is all I've got!"

John was taken aback "Sherlock my love, your hair is glorious, and it's certainly a large part of your life, but it's not all you have! You have so much that makes you unique, your hair is just one part of that!" he edged closer to Sherlock "and you have me, don't you?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded slowly, directing his gaze to his curls. But in the next instant his expression fell again.

"I know John, but please don't make me cut my hair…" he sighed and snivelled.

"Alright, I didn't fancy the idea myself" John replied honestly "but you have exactly five minutes to come up with another plan, or else your hair gets it."

"What about a ladder?" Sherlock questioned.

"To reach to the top of this tower? They haven't made one tall enough yet."

"Rope?"

"Likewise, it would be difficult to find one long enough to reach the ground. And besides, don't you think someone would suspect something if I hauled a whole rope out here into a supposably secluded forest?"

Sherlock thought desperately. His brain desperately processed everything he knew, trying to figure out the appropriate course of action…

…and then came up with an idea.

"I've got it John!" he cried "if we can't find a ladder, we'll _make_ one!"

John grinned. "great idea! But, what were you planning on using?"

Sherlock thought desperately, trying to come up with some kind of material that would be strong enough to support the climb down. He scanned around the tower for inspiration. There had to be something they could use…

His eyes jumped over to his wardrobe, which was currently a mess. As his eyes scanned over the garments, one in particular caught his eye.

Sherlock's eyes glittered and his brain burst out in an array of fireworks. Why hadn't he seen it before?

He jumped up, swiped up the garment triumphantly, and presented it to John.

"Scarfs!" he grinned "we can sew scarfs together! They're easy to find, strong, and long enough so that we won't need many of them to reach the bottom of the tower!"

John broke out in a smile, jumped up and kissed Sherlock square on the nose.

"Sherlock, you are a genius!" he grinned "that's a fantastic idea!"

"Of course" Sherlock grinned, feeling proud of his idea "we'll have to find a way to hide our progress, and you'll have to supply the scarves I'm afraid…"

"I don't care!" John cried "I'd supply you with gold bars if it meant you'd be free! Oh Sherlock, I can't wait!"

Sherlock smiled and embraced his lover. His heart was exploding in a million directions…

He was finally going to be free. After all those years, all those endless days of mind numbing boredom, he was finally going to walk among society again, and he was going to be with John!

* * *

The two stayed up the entire night, talking, laughing and planning their escape. So when the sun finally broke over the horizon, Sherlock was more than convinced that their plan couldn't possibly fail.

"I have to go now Sherlock" John whispered softly.

Sherlock clutched John's jacket, suddenly terrified. He knew Mycroft would be coming back, and the thought made him feel sick to the core.

John could clearly read his mind "Sherlock, he cannot hurt you. I promise you, I'll be back tonight, and I'll bring some scarves so we can get started on our rope…"

He stepped up onto the windowsill, before turning and caressing his lover's cheek.

"Just keep telling yourself, I'm going to be free."

And with those words, he slipped down Sherlock's hair and disappeared back into the trees.

Sherlock drew his tresses back into the tower, before collapsing against the wall beside the window.

"I'm going to be free" he whispered, as the sun burst out across the sky, and it was morning once more "I'm going to be free…"

"_I'm going to be free."_

**Note: Hello readers! Sorry for another note, but I just had to make mention of the previous chapter. I hope everyone was ok with it; it is a very difficult topic to write about. **

**This chapter was really hard to write! I was writing until 11:00 last night, then I have spent the entire morning revising it. Hopefully I have done a good job, let me know what you think!**


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, Sherlock was pacing the floor, growing increasingly agitated. He was terrified that Mycroft would attack him again.

He remembered the feeling of Mycroft's kisses against his skin, the horrible, drunken slops which were dispensed onto his skin. He loathed his previous subjection, but he was certainly not going to greet Mycroft with weakness. He was going to show him _exactly _how much he hated him.

In retrospective, he grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and held it tightly in his fist, awaiting Mycroft's imminent arrival.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock just about threw up, but he held it down and let his tresses tumble down to Mycroft. His grip on the knife tightened so much that his knuckle became white.

Mycroft finally reached the window. He took in Sherlock's shaking figure, clutching the knife, his eyes wide with fear.

Mycroft raised both hands in a surrender gesture.

"Sherlock, I understand my motives the other night may have appeared… unsatisfactory…"

Sherlock's eyes blazed.

"You-tried-to-assault-_me_" Sherlock snarled "don't come any closer to me!"

Mycroft sighed "Sherlock, I realize that I made advances on you, but I had no intention of harming you…"

"Try telling that to your tongue" Sherlock hissed "try telling that to my neck!" he opened his collar, revealing several hideous love bites "try telling that to my penis! You were going to perform oral on me Mycroft, sex without consent…"

"Enough!" Mycroft roared, and Sherlock fell silent "yes, I tried to perform oral on you. Yes I attacked you, yes I kissed you, but I was not within my wits. I didn't intend for this to happen."

His words were genuine, but Sherlock was watching his eyes. Mycroft couldn't care less about his words, and it infuriated Sherlock.

"You _sicken _me" Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft sighed in frustration "and you are a inconsiderate brat. You never attempt to see things from another's point of view…"

"YOU-TRIED-TO-_RAPE_-ME!" Sherlock shrieked.

It was the first time he had said that word. Strangely enough, getting it off his chest made him feel better. He somehow felt stronger now that he had admitted the feeling out loud.

Mycroft had an interesting look about his face. One that conceived insult, anger and (to Sherlock's fury) _pity._

"Give me what you brought" he gestured to the basket "then get out of here."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock brandished the knife "_get __**out.**__"_

Mycroft obeyed, and set the basket down on the side table, before clambering back down Sherlock's tresses.

Sherlock collapsed against the window again, waiting eagerly now for the time his love would arrive.

* * *

That evening, he heard John's voice waft up.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock threw his tresses down to John, before pulling him into the tower when he reached the window.

"Hello" John whispered, glad to see that Sherlock was slowly reforming back into the man he was before his unprovoked attack.

Sherlock kissed John's lips, before his eyes caught a bag that John had slung over one shoulder.

"Scarf's?" Sherlock questioned eagerly.

John grinned, before opening the bag, presenting to Sherlock about fifteen scarfs.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock clapped his hands "you are a marvel John!"

John grinned as Sherlock showered him with kisses. He knew he was the only one in the world to see this side of Sherlock, and he adored the fact. He knew Sherlock was sociopathic-the man had admitted it himself-but he didn't hesitate to proclaim his undying devotion to John, such devotion that he'd never bestow upon another human being.

"We'd better get started" John smiled as Sherlock finally allowed himself to pull away.

The two of them sat side by side on the windowsill. John presented Sherlock with some needle and thread and the two set to work.

As they sewed the scarfs together, Sherlock started asking John about what he could expect to find in the world when he was finally free.

"Well… they have these things called 'mobiles' now" John explained "which are portable telephones, and they have flat screen televisions, and they've invented these things called iPod's, which are portable music devices, and we've invented something called the internet, which is a massive online website you can go to and learned about anything…"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide as he listened to John's descriptions of the world. The world he had left behind all those years ago had never been as advanced as it was now, and Sherlock was dying to escape and see what lay in store for him.

John explained about fashion, technology, websites (the internet sounded marvellous), art, popular culture, books, language and modern culinary. By the end of it all, Sherlock was in a desperate rapture.

"I can't wait to leave!" Sherlock laughed when John had finished explaining something called 'tumblr' "can you bring more scarf's tomorrow John?"

John grinned and kissed his love softly "I will bring you some everyday, for as long as it takes for you to be free from this wretched tower."

Sherlock became lost in John's embrace, and the rope lay forgotten for a moment.

"John what will happen when the rope is finished?" Sherlock questioned softly.

John grinned and spoke gently to Sherlock, in between passionate kisses.

"When our rope is finished, (_kiss_) I will call out to you to let down your hair (_kiss_) but instead you will let down the rope (_smooch_) and you will climb down, tresses blowing lightly in the breeze (_two long and luxurious kisses_) and when you reach the earth, I will take you in my arms (_kiss, kiss, kiss_) and I will hold you close to my chest, and I will give you the most wonderful kiss I can possibly bestow (_gives a __very__ fine example of such kiss_)."

John gentle parted his lips from Sherlock's own and rested their foreheads together "and then you and I will be free to love each other for the rest of our days."

Sherlock felt a grin spreading across his face. To hear John admit his devotion, the kind of which no one else in his life had ever willingly blessed him with... Sherlock wasn't sure if his heart was breaking or swelling with adoration. He was inclined to go with the latter choice.

"I love you so much" Sherlock whispered "you have given me everything, and one day I'll find a way to repay you for all you've done."

John reached up and caressed Sherlock's cheek "the only repayment you could possibly bestow upon me is your happiness" he whispered "your freedom's my reward."

It was hard for them to untangle themselves from each other, but they only managed to finish the first section of the rope as daybreak broke once again.

"I'll bring more scarfs tomorrow" John promised, softly kissing Sherlock's knuckles "remember, keep telling yourself 'I'm going to be free.'"

As John wandered away, Sherlock sat down by the window and idly combed his tresses, constantly repeating John's mantra with every motion of his comb.

"_I'm going to be free…"_

"_I'm going to be free…"_

"_**I'm going to be free!**__"_


	12. Chapter 12

So for the next few nights, Sherlock and John sat by his window and alternated between sewing, talking and kissing passionately.

Every moment Sherlock spent with John was blissful. He didn't have to pull a farce of character-as he did with Mycroft. He was-in a strange sense-_free_ when he was within John's presence. With John, it was as though his personal entrapment didn't exist. Instead, he existed in an alternate reality, where he was free to live in only John's adored presence, until the morning's light cast a blood-red glow over the world.

One evening, the pair where busy kissing on the windowsill, when thoughts started racing through his mind.

_-He was getting very excited (very excited)_

_-John was simply beautiful in the evening light. Not the textbook definition of beauty, but perfect in Sherlock's eyes._

_-He (Sherlock) was madly in love with John Watson._

_-He needed John more than he had ever needed anyone in his life._

Sherlock blinked. He was still a man in possession on his virginity, and had never considered moving forward on that front. Never considered moving past kissing and embracing…

But the more he looked at John Watson, the more he kissed him, touched him, stroked him… he fell even more madly in love with him.

And his love was becoming a physical feeling. A greater feeling… a need for something more. He wanted something more.

He wanted John Watson.

"John!" Sherlock cried "John, I must ask you something."

John paused and took Sherlock's hands "yes Sherlock?"

"John…" Sherlock breathed deeply "John… I want to…"

John noticed how nervous Sherlock looked. He had gone an interesting shade of green, and was shaking slightly.

"Yes?" he asked, frowning slightly in worry.

"I…" Sherlock was panicking, reckoning he was probably about to make a fool of himself, but he managed to get out the next words "I love you John, more than anyone, or anything in this world, and I want to…"

He took a deep breath "I want to make love to you."

He realised he was speaking to his tresses, so he lifted his head shyly to look at John Watson.

John was looking him with a glorious mixture of adoration and sweetness.

"Oh, my love" John whispered, his breath almost caught in his throat, a gentle smile spread across his features "are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded. He was sure, he had never been surer of anything in his life.

"I'm ready John."

In response, John leaned over and kissed him, gently caressing his curls.

* * *

Sherlock found himself becoming lost in John's sweet embrace, kissing him, stroking him and letting his entire love spill out and wrap itself around his lover.

In a spontaneous moment, he slowly lifted his hair over his shoulder and placed it on John's lap.

John seemed to be in a lover's trance, utterly spellbound. Sherlock watched as John worshiped his hair, running his hands through it, gently stroking it, occasionally lifting it up to his lips and dropping a loving kiss to it.

Then, in one of his own spontaneous moments, John ever so gently tugged at Sherlock's tresses.

Sherlock moaned softly, adoring the feeling. Realising how Sherlock enjoyed it, John softly tugged Sherlock's hair again, at the same time still giving his lover's lips the attention they deserved.

Sherlock was overcome. As soon as John releases his tresses, Sherlock pulled him into a hug, letting his tresses adorn them both as Sherlock held him close.

Then John stood up, and Sherlock felt his heart sink at the loss. But John grasped both of Sherlock's hands and brought him to his feet.

They stood in the middle of the room, eyes transfixed on each other-Sherlock's grey-blue against John's azure. There was a sort of imagery flashing in John's eyed that made Sherlock shiver. It was a different sort of love, a unique, insane, hunger that was fueled by passion.

Before he had time to comprehend the ignited flame in John's eyes, John leant in and captured Sherlock's lips in one of the most passionate kisses Sherlock has ever received from his lover.

Sherlock eagerly welcomed John's soft lips against his own. John raised his hands and let them run through Sherlock's tresses, pulling him closer. Sherlock moaned gently against John's mouth, and John unconsciously mimicked the noise. John gently tugged at Sherlock's hair again, and Sherlock's felt his hands wind around John's hips as he moaned with pleasure, eagerly prompting John to repeat the action.

The pair eventually backed away from the kiss, their eyes dark, their lips kiss swollen. Sherlock whimpered, wanting nothing more than John's lips back against his own.

But John clearly wanted the same thing, because he took Sherlock's hands again, and led him towards the bed. At the foot, he paused and stared seriously at Sherlock

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked again "I want you to be _sure_."

Sherlock softly kissed John's lips, and after only a second's hesitation John returned the kiss. This time it is Sherlock who broke the hold, gently caressing John's cheek.

"I'm sure" he whispered.

That was all the conformation John needed from his lover. He embraced Sherlock, holding him closely.

"You lead" he whispered into Sherlock's ear "I'll assist you if you need help."

Sherlock was nervous, but becoming increasingly excited. He gently sat John down on the bed before kneeling in front of him. John watched as Sherlock slowly raises his hands to John's belt, watched as he removed it, then John's trousers, underpants and all. John watched as Sherlock gently unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, before letting him fall back against the pillows.

Then it was John's turn to watch the performance of Sherlock undressing himself. He never removed his eyes from John, and before John could even comprehend it, Sherlock was undressed and sitting in between his legs.

Seeing Sherlock naked, a beautiful sculpture of a man, his hair falling like a silken, tumbling river, the image was almost enough to make John come right then and there. But before he could even comprehend doing that, Sherlock did something totally unexpected.

He lifted John up, and slowly began winding his hair around the two of them, pulling them closer together. The feeling of Sherlock's hair, like silk against his body, made John give a whimper of delight.

Soon, Sherlock finished wrapping his hair around them, before he descended on John's lips and kissed him again; lovingly, passionately, indescribably.

"Relax" John whispered kindly. He could feel Sherlock shaking with nerves, their manhood's pressed together and altogether arousing them both further.

Sherlock willingly relaxed, kissing John again and breathing in, out, in, out…

"Remember" John said softly "at any time, no matter what we are doing, if you want to stop, we will stop. I want you to enjoy this, ok?"

Sherlock nodded gently, too overcome with his love to say anything, except choke out a humbled "ok…"

* * *

From there, there was no more subjections or points made. There was only soft kisses, gentle moans, sudden pleasure-filled gasps, the heat of body on body, the speed of hearts racing in exhilaration. The only words that came from either of them were whispered declarations of love.

The whole time, John softly tugged at Sherlock's hair, which brought exclamations of joy from Sherlock's mouth. Being enclosed in Sherlock's tresses made both men feel safe, loved. It was as though the silken strands were weaving them together, making their love even stronger.

Eventually though, the deed was done. They both saw stars and white light, one shortly after the other. Sherlock collapsed against John's chest, breathing erratically and listening to his heartbeat, while John held Sherlock close, wishing for all the world that he would never have to let him go.

* * *

Sherlock slowly unwound his hair from himself and John, both of them still working on catching their breath, their eyes never leaving each-others. After he finished, he sat back and lets his tresses tumble over his shoulder to John.

John sat up and took the silken locks in both hands. He lovingly stroked it, gently tugged it, whispered his everlasting love for Sherlock into it and dropped kisses into it, trailing them up Sherlock's tresses until his lips met Sherlock's mouth.

That was when he felt wetness on Sherlock's cheek.

John pulled back suddenly. Sherlock was _crying. _Tears were falling softly from his eyes.

"Oh god" John panicked "oh my god, I've hurt you! Sherlock, I'm so sorry…"

"No!" Sherlock sobbed, trying to wipe his eyes "you haven't hurt me, I'm just… I'm so happy!"

John relaxed and pulled Sherlock closer to him, running his hands through Sherlock's silken curls as he replied gently "you were fantastic, it really did feel as though we were making, well… love!"

Sherlock snorted with laughter through his tears "as long as I'm with you, everything we do is made up of love" he smiled shyly at John, who gave him an almost ear to ear grin back, seeing how excited and shyly beautiful his lover looked.

John wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had experienced pure joy. He saw the way passion blazed in the man's eyes, mixed with a shy and desperate longing. A longing for freedom. A longing for escape. A desperate longing for a time when he could kiss John without having to risk his brother's impending wrath.

And John was desperate to provide him the key to escape from his towering prison of retribution.

From there, both of them sank into a love filled embrace; declarations of love still coming from both of their mouths, declarations that John would never tire of hearing. Declarations that meant more to both of them than anything else ever would.


	13. Chapter 13

After his first sexual encounter, Sherlock had since received three other gratifying and beautiful love making instances from John Watson.

Every time was unique. As they went along and progressed further, they had been experimenting to see what worked, what didn't, and what they enjoyed.

All in all, Sherlock was falling even more in love with John, and he was becoming even more desperate to leave his tower.

Mycroft, of course, knew nothing of Sherlock's relationship, and that suited Sherlock perfectly. Despite their obvious excitement and lust for each other, they were always careful, never getting too carried away, leaving no marks that Mycroft would notice.

On this evening, the pair had finished their work on the scarf for the day and where now lying on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was lying back against the pillows in pure bliss, and John was lying in-between his legs and… pleasuring him.

Sherlock was in heaven. It had taken him a while for him to feel confident enough to ask for this sort of pleasure. Ever since his experience with Mycroft, he had been sure he never wanted to try that sort of thing again.

But with John, he found himself wanting it. And tonight he had finally been brave enough to ask.

John was doing a wonderful job. His touch was nothing like Mycroft's drunken attack. He had been gentle, loving and hadn't rushed things, leaving Sherlock time to get the most out of this pleasure he was giving.

Now, he was reaching his climax. Sherlock gave a pleasure filled moan, fingers clutching desperately at the sheets, as he felt himself nearing the edge. John smiled against his manhood, listening to the man's groans and desperate repetition of _'JohnJohn_JOHN_**John**John...'_

Then John made a wonderfully clever movement with his tongue, and Sherlock was done.

He gave a wonderful cry, and felt himself coming. He closed his eyes in bliss, catching his breath as John crawled up and lay on his chest. Sherlock let his beautiful curls tumble over his shoulder, presenting the silken tresses to John. John laughed softly with a sense of delight, before gently caressing the gorgeous locks as he felt himself coming down from his post

"Hello..." John whispered, gently kissing Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock grinned and returned the kiss "you know, you can't keep giving me pleasure. One day I shall have to return the favour."

"Every day you return the favour" John whispered, gently moving downwards with his kisses "as I've said before, your happiness is my pleasure."

Sherlock moaned lightly as John's kisses moved further downward, down his neck and towards his chest.

He gazed down at the man. How queer to think that-years ago-all this would be alien to him. He had never desired another person's friendship, let alone their love... And now he was devoted to the man in front of him, willing to lay down his life in a bid to protect his John.

He thought about his rapidly approaching freedom, the hope that he would soon be reunited with the society he had been unwillingly locked away from all those years ago. However...

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Mmhm?" John replied; still busy kissing every square inch of skin he could find.

"John, I think you ought to know that I always considered incapable of love" Sherlock spoke quietly "emotion even, but…"

"Yes?" asked John softly, resting his head back on Sherlock's chest.

"But when I met you…" Sherlock hesitated "it's as though I'm different, more… _humane_ even. But... I worry still."

"About what?" John questioned.

"Re-entering society" Sherlock spoke gently, but his voice had an edge "I mean, really John, I'm not exactly the loveliest person in the world."

"You are to me" John whispered, kissing his neck.

"Thank you John, but my reactions to others can sometimes be… less than satisfactory" Sherlock whispered "but I hold you dearly, and in every possible way that can be expressed, I love you."

John knew Sherlock meant every word. He wasn't a man for speeches, but when he did make one, every word he spoke came straight from his innermost thoughts.

"You mustn't worry" John whispered, sitting up and pulling his trousers back on "I'll be with you every step of the way, I'm beside you; not just because I want to help you, but because I love you" he began buttoning up his shirt.

Sherlock smiled, but he still seemed sad "in all honesty my love… I'm scared."

"Scared of what?" John asked softly, pausing and leaning over to take Sherlock's hand.

"John, I don't know if I can do this" Sherlock confessed "I haven't been outside in fifteen years, the world has changed. What if I can't keep up?" Sherlock sat up in frustration "I hate the idea that I'll be useless at recognizing any reasonable awareness of modern society. I've always felt superior, but I can't imagine being... confused."

John leaned over and softly stroked Sherlock's tresses. Sherlock closed his eyes in bliss, and leaned gently against John's chest.

"My poor love" John whispered, gently lifting Sherlock's curls and kissing them "my poor little love..." he trailed his kisses up Sherlock's hair and claimed the gorgeous skin on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock must have been relaxed, because it was a rare occasion that John managed to get away with calling him pet names.

Sherlock looked up and caressed John's cheek.

"John..." he began slowly "all I desire in this bid for freedom is your devotion. I only want to see your eyes. I only want to feel your touch, I only want to hear your voice. I only desire you and I only want your love and adoration. When I'm finally free from this wretched tower, I just want it to be us..." he kissed John's lips slowly "all I want is your love. In return, I will love you forever, with all my heart, no matter how cold I am to other members of society."

John gave Sherlock the greatest grin of his life, before giving him an equally great kiss.

"You have nothing to fear when you leave" he whispered "I'll be beside you, I will protect you, and I will love you…"

And with those words, the two of them once again descended upon each other, exchanging kisses and words that could only add to the description of eternal devotion…


	14. Chapter 14

Every day, with every scarf that the pair sewed onto the rope, Sherlock felt his freedom growing stronger. And with every moment he spent with John, he found his love growing stronger.

One night, the two were sitting down in the evening glow. John looked so beautiful that Sherlock could barely stand it.

'_Here is a man' _he thought to himself _'who has given me everything I could want, everything I could need, and everything I could desire. Here is a man who would do anything for me, go anywhere for me, fetch the moon and the stars for me. And here is a man who loves me just for being myself…'_

He still couldn't comprehend any of this. John had completely changed him, and only for the better. John was a light in the darkness of his life. With him, Sherlock could feel his sociopathic hatred of the world melting away, simply to be replaced with a comfort. A comfort to Sherlock and a promise that John loved him.

He leant over and kissed John, whom had been unusually quiet that whole evening.

For a long time they stayed in that position. Neither of them tried to break the spell which had been cast over them, and neither attempted to end their embrace. It was only when John lightly pulled away from Sherlock's lips that Sherlock truly noticed the worry that lingered in his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asked gently "is… everything ok?"

John suddenly took his hand and stood him up abruptly.

"John?" Sherlock asked, feeling nervous.

And why? What was he so afraid of? It was only John. And true, he had never seen the man look so nervous, as though he was about to faint from the dizzying circumstances which embraced him...

John took both of Sherlock's hands. He was so close that Sherlock could see the flashes of emerald against his brilliant blue eyes, swirling near the pupils in a dizzying (yet intoxicatingly beautiful) whirlpool.

"Sherlock" John whispered, a nervous grin now spreading across his face "for the time that I've known you, you have made me happier than I've ever been in my life, every time I'm with you, it seems as though summer has just broken through a crack in the clouds…"

John bit his lip and searched for words. Sherlock looked on nervously, wondering where John was going with his little speech.

"You are my everything. You are my sun, my moon and my oxygen and you are what makes my life worth living. I never want to be without you and I've never loved anyone more. I hope that one day soon you'll be free from this wretched tower, and when that day comes, I never want to be parted from you…"

John dropped to one knee, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

Sherlock's throat dried up. There must be some kind of damaged vocal cord somewhere, because although there were a million questions in his mind, he couldn't ask any of them. John's grin grew even wider.

"Sherlock… will you marry me?

As those words left John's mouth, all the air came rushing back into Sherlock's body in one spectacular motion, exhilarating him and leaving him in pure bliss. He felt happiness course through his body, running through his veins and whooshing throughout his bloodstream. John wanted to marry him! _**John Watson wanted to marry him! **_He felt a million emotions course through him-most of which he'd never experienced before in his life, ranging from excitement to happiness to exhilaration to pure True Love for the jumper wearing man who knelt before him.

Sherlock realised that he'd been silent with shock for almost a full minute. He finally manage to choke out his reply.

"Of course!" he cried "oh John, of course I'll marry you!"

John gave Sherlock the greatest grin of his life, before standing up and pulling Sherlock in for a gentle and loving kiss. Sherlock desperately kissed John back, wondering if this was all simply a theory of his imagination, that his mind was inventing this maddening scene. But he could feel John's lips moving against his own, and he couldn't ignore the adrenalin fuelled passion which soared through his blood and left him breathless.

When they finally managed to pull themselves apart, John clutched Sherlock's hands, his eyes filled with such an ecstatic passion that it made Sherlock's heart flutter in anticipation.

"John…" Sherlock whispered "John, I want to marry you now! I don't want to have to wait!"

John giggled, lightly kissing Sherlock's lips "I do too!" then his face fell "but we can't! We don't have a supervisor, or a witness…"

"It doesn't matter" Sherlock gasped "please John, marry me now, we can marry officially when I'm free from this damned tower! Please, my love..."

John couldn't resist "alright, I don't have a ring I'm afraid, but we can say our vows now, and then we can just repeat them later on…"

The pair stood facing each other, before taking the other's hands and making up their vows on the spot. John went first-

"Sherlock" he began, a beautiful smile spread across his face "before I met you, my life was a mess. I was injured, alone, lonely and afraid as to what the future might hold. Then-quite by chance-I heard your beautiful music, and although I didn't realise it at the time, fell madly in love with you."

John paused, blushing slightly as he looked for the next words. He hoped he wasn't making a fool of himself.

"But beautiful as your music is, it is nothing in comparison to the musician. I had secretly rather hoped that the violinist I had been listening to would be as beautiful as the music they played. On the contrary Sherlock, you exceeded my expectations. Never in my life have I met someone who is as lovely inside as they are out, but when you became a part of my life, I felt I finally understood what true beauty is."

John paused again, before finishing with.

"Today, I stand by you, as truly the luckiest man in the world, for I am proclaiming that I am not only your lover, but your husband as well. You are the best man, the most human… well, _human _and I couldn't love anyone more; I was so alone, and I owe you so much. And to my opinion, if this was a fairy tale, this would be the moment where I lived Happily Ever After.

As he heard John speak those words, Sherlock felt something inside him break. He wasn't sure if it was his heart, or his underused emotional capacities, but before he knew it a tear slid down his right cheek, followed closely by another identical one on his left. He did nothing to halt them as John finished his vows and gently kissed his cheek, right on the spot where the first tear had fallen. He knew what a pathetic, sniveling mess he must have looked like at that moment, but for once in his life he didn't care.

"No need to cry, my love" he heard John whisper "it's your turn now…"

"John" Sherlock began, unable to contain a fond laugh as John smiled and picked up one of his tresses, before using it to dab softly at the tears which lingered in his vision.

"John, for the past fifteen years, I have been locked away from the world. I always wanted something more, something different. I craved freedom, but I also craved a relationship, a friend. However, from the first day which you called upon me to let down my hair, I realised that you were the answer to my prayers, and I feel blessed as a result."

Sherlock continued "because you are different John. You are unique certainly, but you are different in the sense that you are loving and compassionate. I will admit that I was nervous the day you first entered my chamber, but you spoke to me so kindly, all my doubts vanished. Altogether, you went from a stranger who happened upon my existence, to a man who I would forever want to call my friend."

"But you are also more in the sense that you are my lover. I adore you beyond comparison to anyone else I have ever met. And granted I have spent fifteen years in a tower, but you have become my lifeline, something that keeps me afloat in troubled waters, and for that I hold you dearly in my heart as a man I would be proud not only to call my friend, but my lover and my husband. The rest of the world can be damned John. I will adore you from now until the end of my days."

Sherlock let a hand trail down John's cheek, unable to grin as he discovered the salty residue of John's own tears. However, nothing but blissful, joy-filled content graced John's features as he cradled Sherlock's hands within his own.

The glorious adoration for each other was only further enhanced when they leant in for a kiss.

* * *

It has long been said that the most beautiful kiss of all time was that between Wesley and his love Buttercup, in William Goldman's classic novel 'the Princess Bride.'

It is fair to note also, that since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure.

This one left them all behind.

**Note: Well. That was _fluffy. _I know they just transpired and went completely OOC there, but I think I'll allow it. Let's allow them at least one moment of pure, uninterrupted bliss.**

**ALSO: I do not claim ownership of the second last paragraph or the final line. They are William Goldman's lines, and they are from his novel 'The Princess Bride' (which is one of my all time favourite books :D). I put them in because I thought they fitted the scene perfectly. What do you think? **


	15. Chapter 15

Ever since he had gotten married, Sherlock had been over the moon. Everything was pretty much the same with his and John's relationship, but it felt as though their love was stronger, knowing that they were husband.

The rope was coming along splendidly as well. It was longer with every day, and soon there would be enough to reach the bottom of the tower.

Every day Sherlock grew more excited. There were days where John would leave him with a bag of scarfs (usually on the nights they got distracted with love-making) and Sherlock would spend the next day after Mycroft left sewing them together.

It was all his mind could focus on. He was no longer interested in his books or his laboratory. There were some days he couldn't even be bothered getting dressed, and just lay around his pyjamas all day.

It was annoying though, as time progressed he found that his shirts were getting far tighter, and far more difficult to get on. He suspected he had dropped some kind of solution into his sink while he was washing his clothes and that was causing them to shrink.

He wondered if he could have eaten something off, because (unless he was seeing things) his stomach seemed to be slightly bloated. He groaned in frustration when he realised that he would have to ask Mycroft for new clothes.

He was also annoyed because he seemed to have caught some kind of stupid virus off of Mycroft, and had a stomach ache throughout the day as a result.

* * *

One night, while he and John were making love, he felt a stabbing pain against his stomach. Cursing Mycroft and his goddamn infections, he pulled away from his husband, and ran into the bathroom to throw up neatly into the lavatory.

John followed anxiously, having pulled his trousers back on. Once Sherlock had finished being sick, he wrapped Sherlock's dressing gown around his shoulders.

"Thank you" Sherlock coughed, before standing up and going to the sink to wash out his mouth.

"Are you alright?" John asked, a concerned look spread across his face.

"I'm fine" Sherlock nodded, spitting the water back out into the sink "just experiencing physical torture in the lower regions of my stomach courtesy of Mycroft, I'm getting better now."

John knelt down and ran his fingers through his love's hair "my poor little love" he whispered, giving Sherlock a quick peck on the forehead "come on, you'd better get some sleep, I'll tuck you in."

"Can't we finish what we started?" Sherlock begged, forgetting to protest at being spoken to as though he was a child.

"You're sick sweetheart, it's important that you rest" John smiled, leading him back to his bed.

"You just don't want to get sick as well" Sherlock pouted.

"True" John laughed "just rest my love, I'll be back tomorrow, remember to pull your hair back in after I'm gone!"

Sherlock tried to keep his pout, but it all flooded away when John tucked him in and pecked his forehead softly.

"Goodnight love" John whispered, before slipping back down his love's hair and disappearing into the trees.

* * *

That night did not go well. Sherlock tossed and turned, but the abominable pains persisted until Sherlock was (literally) sick of them. He hoped he could somehow convince Mycroft to bring his some kind of pain-killer.

After another week, Sherlock was at his breaking point. The stomach pains had persisted for another three days, but John had been good enough to bring him the pain-killers. However, he still hadn't managed to solve the clothes problem. He hadn't found the solution that could have caused the shrinking of his clothes, so he grudgingly decided he would have to ask his brother after all.

He was also convinced that he may have a case of indigestion, which would certainly explain the bloating. If that was the case, he was going to murder his brother in cold blood, because John certainly hadn't been sick recently.

* * *

That morning, as he was puzzling over his clothes dilemma in the mirror, he heard Mycroft's voice calling out to him far below.

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

Sherlock let his long tresses tumble out of the window to Mycroft, who grabbed hold of them roughly and began to haul himself up.

Sherlock fought the urge to scream in pain and gritted his teeth. Why did Mycroft have to grab so hard?

He had never trusted Mycroft after the assult, and his visits were now the bane of Sherlock's life. He knew if he didn't have John, then suicide would look like a birthday party compared to remaining with Mycroft. But he knew that his freedom was one step closer, so he didn't let Mycroft's visits get to him.

But that didn't explain why Mycroft was pulling his hair _so fucking hard_. Sherlock was sure he had never felt so much pain from his brother's fingertips before.

In retaliation, Sherlock grabbed his hair and began to pull Mycroft up, hoping to speed the process along.

This proved fatal. Through his strain to pull Mycroft up, as he reached to pull him into the tower, his shirt finally gave in to the pressure, and with a sound _**r-i-p **_tore almost in two and slithered silently around his waist, revealing his soft, new curves for the first time.

Mycroft took one look at his abdomen and his face contorted into one of fury and shock.

Sherlock desperately tried to cover up his stomach, feeling horribly exposed under Mycroft's stare.

"You're… you're…" Mycroft choked out, looking more furious than Sherlock had ever seen him before.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, as his brother's face went from snow white, to red, to purple, to almost maroon.

Mycroft's eyes jolted to Sherlock's, and Sherlock recoiled in fear. He had never seen his brother looks so angry, so shocked and so… dangerous.

"**You're **_**pregnant!"**_ Mycroft shrieked furiously, in a tone that was almost a howl of horror.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock froze and properly examined his stomach. He had long suspected something wasn't right, but the conformation of the fact made him shiver with a strange combination of fear and excitement.

"I'm having John's baby…" he whispered softly, and despite the anxiety, terror and adrenalin that was coursing through him, he still felt a swell of love, both for John and his own unborn child…

His comfort didn't last a second longer. Before he could even comprehend it, Mycroft had grabbed him and smashed his head against the wall.

"**Who's been here?!"** he screamed "tell me now!"

Sherlock screwed his eyes up in pain as he felt blood trickle down his forehead.

"Mycroft…" he tried to choke out.

But Mycroft was having none of that. He slapped Sherlock hard across the face, which sent him to the floor. Mycroft then grabbed him by his long tresses and threw him into the wall.

"Don't even try to lie to me Sherlock!" he roared, his face a mask of fury "who has been here?"

"A friend!" Sherlock yelled back, desperately fighting of tears of fear and pain "he comes to see me every few days, but please Mycroft…"

Mycroft kicked him hard, swiping his feet out from underneath him, sending him crashing to the floor again.

"Tell me who he is!" Mycroft screeched "tell me now!"

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, tears running down his face. In retaliation to his silence, Mycroft flipped him onto his back, and raised his shoe, intending to crush Sherlock's stomach.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed "no, Mycroft please, his name is John!"

In response, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock, wrapped his hands around his throat and threw him into the stone wall of the tower.

"So" Mycroft's voice became a deadly hiss, which frightened Sherlock even more "you think you can deceive me do you? You think you can try and keep secrets from me? Do you think you can try and make a fool out of me?!"

"Mycroft, please!" Sherlock choked desperately, his lungs tightening with his loss of air "Mycroft, you're hurting me!"

Mycroft released his grip, but grabbed Sherlock's hair instead, almost ripping great amounts out.

"You think you're so clever" he hissed "you think you're a genius, better than everyone…"

"No Mycroft!" Sherlock sobbed desperately.

"I suppose I'm the bad guy then?" he asked quietly.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock wept, but Mycroft slapped his face again.

"All these years I've kept you locked away!" Mycroft screamed "all these years I've kept you hidden away from the world…"

Mycroft suddenly stopped, and took a deep breath.

"I won't kill you or your child" Mycroft whispered dangerously "but by the time I'm through with you, you'll be begging me to end you…"

Sherlock could do little more than stare at his brother, a look of pure fear spread across his face, tears streaming down his face.

Mycroft grabbed him and flung him against the windowsill, before he stepped swiftly over to the bathroom. Sherlock looked on fearfully as he emerged from the room a second later with a pair of silver scissors, which were glittering dangerously in the light.

"No!" Sherlock gave a cry of horror, putting two and two together "please Mycroft, don't…!"

Mycroft ignored him and slammed him against the windowsill again. He wrapped Sherlock's tresses twice around his left hand, seizing the scissors in his right.

"NO!" Sherlock gave a scream, a heart wrenching cry…

But it paid towards nothing in the end. Mycroft simply ignored him and set about furiously cutting off Sherlock's beautiful hair.

Sherlock could do nothing but weep as Mycroft performed the deed, furiously hacking at Sherlock's glorious tresses. Sherlock begged and pleaded, but Mycroft ignored him, paid him no heed, instead choosing to saw off his beautiful curls right up to the nape of neck.

Once he was done, he stepped back swiftly, dragging Sherlock to the floor with him. Sherlock fell against his butchered tresses and sobbed, clutching the silken curls as they lay lifeless on the floor.

Before he could comprehend what was happening, he felt a swift whack around his head, which sent him falling forwards. He cracked his head on the stone wall of the tower, before he fell into blackness.

* * *

Mycroft was furious. He had never been angrier in his life. He clutched the silver scissors as he advanced towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was hysterical, begging him not to perform the deed, but Mycroft hadn't paid any attention.

There was something strangely intoxicating about the events. He couldn't quite lay his finger on what. Perhaps it had been the slicing snip of the blades as he had raised the scissors to his brother's locks. Perhaps it had been the way the silken curls had felt as they slipped through his fingers, before falling lifeless to the stone floor of the tower.

No. Mycroft knew exactly why it had been so intoxicating. It had been Sherlock's screams. His begging, his pleading and his bargaining. It had been music to Mycroft's ears.

Now he had to get rid of his brother. As far as he was concerned, he was finished with Sherlock. He had to get rid of him, dump him somewhere where he'd either fend for himself or die.

Mycroft ripped his phone out of his pocket, before dialling a number.

"Anthea… yes, it's Mycroft. Listen, I need your help…"

In less than an hour, Mycroft had brought Sherlock (still unconscious) to the edge of the forest, where 'Anthea' was waiting in a car. Mycroft threw Sherlock into the back, before jumping in next to Anthea.

"Drive" he hissed "up north, now."

Anthea new better than to question Mycroft's demands, so she set off and started driving.

* * *

They drove for hours and hours. They passed cities, mountains, valleys, hills and dales, until Mycroft finally ordered Anthea to stop.

They were in the middle of nowhere. All around them was empty English countryside, with frost and mist spreading around them.

Mycroft knelt down and slapped Sherlock in the face. The man snapped awake and-after getting his senses together-turned to Mycroft and choked out.

"Where are we?"

"This is your home now" Mycroft shrugged "you wanted freedom; I'm offering it to you."

Sherlock took in the empty countryside, the icy wind and the fog. He shivered and felt tears rush to his eyes again.

"No Mycroft!" he begged "please Mycroft, take me back to London…"

"You deceived me Sherlock" Mycroft spat "you are _not _my problem anymore."

"Please Mycroft!" Sherlock pleaded, a tear falling down his cheek "if not for me then for my child, they'll die out here Mycroft!"

Mycroft gave a cruel laugh "the bastard growing inside your stomach is not my problem Sherlock, I couldn't give a fuck if it dies and so much the same for you."

Mycroft stepped back towards the car, before throwing out a case "this is all you get Sherlock. You can learn to survive out here, or you can die. I don't particularly care what happens to you now."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock sobbed "Mycroft please…"

But Mycroft ignored him, jumped back in the car and ordered Anthea to drive. All Sherlock was left with was an empty wilderness and a mouthful of car exhaust.

Sherlock raised his hands to his shorn tresses, before he collapsed against the grass and wept again. He couldn't care less about himself, but he was terrified for the safety of his child. He didn't know what to do, how to take care of a growing child, how to even give birth. John was the one who knew how to do all of those things…

**John.**

Sherlock began to weep. What would happen when John returned to the tower that night? What if Mycroft was waiting for him…?

Sherlock had never felt so helpless in his life. He was lost, pregnant, alone, and sick to the stomach with fear. For once in his life, he didn't have the answers to all of the questions that were floating around his mind.

Sherlock fell flat against the ground and stared up at the afternoon sky, his tears slowing.

He didn't have the answers, but that didn't mean he was going to give up. That was exactly what Mycroft wanted him to do, and Sherlock was not going to give his brother the satisfaction of believing he had won.

He was going to keep himself and his unborn child alive, no matter what.


	17. Chapter 17

That night, John strolled back to the tower. He was hoping that Sherlock would be feeling better, and he had more scarfs in his bag. Sherlock had promised that the rope was nearly finished, and John could hardly wait, knowing that his love had almost reached the freedom he desired.

John finally reached the base of the tower. Grinning, he called out-

"Sherlock, let down your hair!"

He waited, but Sherlock's tresses didn't tumble towards him.

"Sherlock?" John called again "Sherlock, let down your hair!"

There was a pause, and suddenly Sherlock's luscious curls fell towards him.

John smiled and grasped the tresses, before he began to climb swiftly. He relaxed, letting his mind cloud over as the silken tresses fell through his fingers.

"Sherlock?" John called when he reached the windowsill "Sherlock my love, I brought you some more…"

John froze. An ice cold feeling stabbed at his heart.

Sherlock's beautiful tresses were wrapped around the windowsill, but there was no Sherlock attached to them.

"Sherlock?" John called out, his voice shaking slightly "Sherlock, are you alright?"

He looked all around the interior of the tower, but there was no Sherlock to be found.

"Sherlock!" John called out fearfully "Sherlock my love, where are you?"

John suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around and found him staring into two piercing, black tunnels.

"Hello John."

* * *

John felt his heart leap into his mouth. Mycroft couldn't help but grin at the terrified expression which spread across the man's face.

"Y…you…" John gasped weakly.

"Well done John" Mycroft smiled "it's such a pleasure to meet you at last…"

His voice was icy, and John shivered as the words pierced his lungs and left him breathless.

"Where's…" John gulped "where is Sherlock?"

Mycroft sighed in fake discontent. "John, I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but…" he grinned "you won't be seeing Sherlock again."

John felt his heart sink in his chest and his throat dry up.

"What have you done with him?!" John yelled "where is he?"

"Calm down John" Mycroft rolled his eyes "I've simply had him removed from the premises. Nothing too drastic…"

"After cutting off his…" John felt his heart clench. Without really thinking, his hand stretched out and stroked Sherlock's silken tresses "…hair. How could you be so cruel as to destroy something so beautiful?"

Mycroft's eyes grew darker "he betrayed me John" he hissed "all this time I've kept him locked away, and then you come along…"

John shook his head "you kept him locked up alone! No company, no comfort, no relationships…"

"I did it because I cared about him!" Mycroft retaliated.

"No" John grimaced "you did it because you were jealous of him!"

Mycroft paused.

"That is true John… Actually, what is your last name? If I keep calling you John, you become more of an acquaintance."

"It's Watson you great git." John hissed.

"Well, Mr Watson" Mycroft explained "you hit the nail on the head. You're right; I did it because I was jealous. I did it because Sherlock stole my glory! Mummy and Daddy never even glanced at me until I took Sherlock out of the picture…"

"YOU LOCKED HIM IN A TOWER FOR FIFTEEN YEARS!" John yelled "what could you possibly gain?"

"My parent's respect" Mycroft replied coolly.

"You sicken me" John spat "for someone as animal as you to be related to someone as wonderful as Sherlock… I don't see how that's even possible."

"You can't allow beauty to be set free in the world" Mycroft retaliated "it has to be hidden, locked away, so that people like you can't be allowed to take advantage to its pleasures…"

"I have never taken advantage of Sherlock" John hissed "unlike you!"

Mycroft flushed "I did that because I was drunk…" Mycroft paused "you know what? Fuck it. You'll never see Sherlock or your child again!"

"My child?" John asked, momentarily astounded.

Mycroft smirked "yes John, it seems that when you visited Sherlock, you weren't just popping in for a friendly chat, were you?"

John's hand covered his mouth in shock "I'm… I'm going to be a father?"

"No" Mycroft replied "because-with the way things are going-your bastard kid will be dead before it's taken its first breath."

John's eyes blazed with fury at those words "where is Sherlock?!" John yelled again "if you've hurt him, I swear I will…"

"Swear you will what?" Mycroft hissed "if you kill me, you'll never find your precious friend…"

"He's more than that!" John yelled "he's my lover, he's my husband…"

Mycroft stopped "he's WHAT?"

"My husband" John spat back in reply "I proposed to him, he agreed, we said our vows and we are considering ourselves married until we can find ourselves a referee and make it official."

Mycroft's face contorted into fury again "how could you…"

"Aren't we learning new things" John grinned "I just found out I've got a child; you just found out you've got a brother-in-law."

Without another word, Mycroft grabbed John by the shoulders. John struggled.

"Correction, Mr Watson" he spat back "you don't have a husband or child. Both of them will be dead. The cold will snap Sherlock eventually, and when it does, it will freeze his heart, and his child's into the bargain. And what's more, maybe one day you'll find them, lying together, their cold corpses stretched out on the ground. Sherlock will have died knowing that his love failed him, and your 'beautiful' child will have died not even knowing he was destined to exist in the first place…"

Mycroft staggered back and into the cabinets as John punched him in the face.

"**How dare you!"** John cursed **"how dare you fucking speak to me that way, you fucking murderer…!"**

Mycroft lost his calm exterior. In a flash, he had reached behind him and grasped a kitchen knife, before racing towards John. John tried to intercept him, but in one swift move, Mycroft had slashed the knife across John's eyes.

John screamed in pain as blood poured down his face. Mycroft stepped back swiftly and threw the knife aside.

He grabbed John by the shoulders and threw him towards the windowsill. John coughed and choked as some of his blood trickled down into his throat.

"Y...you...Sherlock...where...?" John sobbed desperately in pain.

"Good luck finding your precious Sherlock now" Mycroft hissed furiously, as John struggled in his arms, before giving him an almighty shove.

He watched as John plummeted down towards the earth, before he hit the ground, bounced once and lay in a silent, bloody mess, a few meters from the tower.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock quickly learned three things about the English countryside.

-It is vast, empty, and usually covered in mist.

-Due to the amount of mist, it is difficult to guess where you are.

-When night comes, the temperatures drop rapidly and become below freezing.

Sherlock had long since examined the contents of case Mycroft had left with him. Inside, he had found:

-His coat (a long, black coat, clearly purchased by Mycroft at one of London's most exclusive shops)

-Two shirts, clearly to replace the torn one he wore. Otherwise, there was no other clothing in the case.

-His violin and bow (Sherlock just about made love to the thing when he found it in the case).

-A small, rectangular mirror.

-A penknife

-A copy of the 'Complete Works of Shakespeare.'

Sherlock looked through the items one more time. He could see use for the shirts, coat and penknife, but he had no idea what he could do with a mirror or a book.

But back to the freezing cold and deadly temperatures.

Sherlock had known his top priorities involved finding shelter, warmth and supplements. He had wandered around the entire day (which, take my word, is not easy when you are pregnant and have just received the beating of your life) until he came across a large, gaping cave mouth which would do appropriately for a shelter.

Warmth was his next problem. He remembered reading once that you could make fire by rubbing two, dry sticks together. He attempted it, but was failing miserably.

As he tried, he felt the sun beating down on his neck. He cursed and pulled his coat up tighter, hoping that he wouldn't burn up…

Sun!

Sunlight could _burn _items!

Not just the sun, but he knew what he could use the mirror for now…

Soon, after directing the angle of the mirror appropriately, he managed to produce a spark; and soon he had a fire, which he fed with a few pages from Shakespeare's book.

Warmth? Check. Now he just needed food.

Doing some interesting scavenging, he came up with a handful of berries; roots and what he assumed were mint leaves.

It didn't bother Sherlock. He knew he could go without food longer than most people. However, he was worried about how he could sustain the child growing inside of him with the meagre rations he had collected.

Well, tree roots were better than nothing. Over the lips and through the gums…

Sherlock spat out the roots in disgust. They tasted like…

Realising he should have washed the roots first; Sherlock cursed and tossed them aside, planning to find a water source tomorrow. Instead he picked up the berries and grimaced.

"Look out stomach, here it comes."

* * *

John woke up. There was nothing but darkness surrounding him. Echoing, empty darkness which spread around like shadows in an empty room.

John felt around him. Shrubbery had broken his fall, and he was alive. Injured and in lashings pain, but alive.

John blinked a couple of times, but the blackness didn't disappear. He wondered if it was night, but he could hear a morning bird call a few meters away in a nearby tree. John wondered if his eyes were shut, so he tried to open them.

**No.**

They _were _open.

John gave a heart-wrenching cry of horror. He was blind…

John lay back against the ground and sobbed. He was blind, he was alone, Sherlock was gone…

At the thought of his lover, John cried harder. Sherlock was gone. His beautiful husband was gone. And John had no idea where.

His beautiful husband… and his child. John felt his sobs turn into a steady weep. He had a child somewhere out in the world that Sherlock was alone with, due to give birth to, destined to father. It broke John's heart to think he couldn't possibly be a part of any of that.

Eventually John managed to cease his tears, and to focus on the facts.

-He was blind

-He was alone, and now hopelessly lost.

-He had no idea where his lover was

-He was terrified. Even more so than the time he had almost died out on the fields in Afghanistan.

But he wasn't going to give up. He had lost his sight, that much was obvious, but he had retained his other senses (and despite the thriving headache, no doubt brought on from his fall) but he was not about to give up.

He was going to find his love, no matter what the cost.

And so, having no sense of direction and in multiple forms of danger, he picked himself up and staggered into the trees.

* * *

Sherlock was freezing now. The night had fallen and the wind had become bitter and violent.

At least the cave was sheltered. Sherlock had pulled his coat tightly around him, more so for his child's benefit than for his own. Because he had nothing else left to do, he began speaking gently to his stomach.

"I reckon you must be warm in there" Sherlock smiled "it's bitter out here my darling, but that doesn't matter to me. As long as you thrive, then I am happy"

Sherlock gently stroked his abdomen. His eyes fell on the violin which lay beside him. Without really thinking, he picked up his bow and began playing a soft, slow tune, one which John had particularly loved. There was a combination of bitter sadness, but it builds up to a glorious ending of hope. It never failed to bring John to tears, but by the end he would be grinning and kissing Sherlock, praising him for the song's beauty.

But now, Sherlock was playing it for his child. The child he had made with John's love. And although he was terrified about the birthing prospect, and his ability to keep his child safe out in the empty countryside, he still wouldn't have traded his child for anything.

Sherlock finished the last notes of the song, before gently stroking his abdomen again.

"I'll keep you safe my love" he whispered "I will protect you, hold you closely and love you until the end of my days…"

* * *

After a while, Sherlock fell into an uneasy sleep, one hand still held protectively on his stomach.

John was in a difficult situation.

He had absolutely no idea where he was. He didn't know if he was still in the forest, or wandering around hopelessly somewhere else.

He had lashings of trouble at first. He couldn't walk five meters without tripping over something, or bumping into some kind of inanimate object. To top it all off, he was still in major pain after being flung out of a window.

After a while, he had managed to fashion a sort of cane out of a stick, and used it to manoeuvre his way around.

John worked out slowly that-whilst blind-he lost all sense of time. When he was tired, he slept, without knowing if it was day or night. He walked for hours, even days, without any major realisation as to if it was the crack of dawn or evening. The only thing he could focus on was finding his lover…

John was terrified to think about where Sherlock could be. John had no way of knowing if Mycroft had harmed him, and if it was true what Mycroft had said, that he was pregnant.

Knowing that Sherlock was out there somewhere was enough to convince John to press forward and keep looking. He had gradually strengthened his other four senses, and his brain had opened up to a wide range of possibilities. His major goal was to find his husband; his day to day goal was keeping himself alive.

Finally, after what felt like eternal decades wandering around, John collapsed in the forest. He groaned as the world spun behind his eyes, dark shapes twisting and turning, blood like shapes dripping down behind shadows…

John choked out Sherlock's name, before he collapsed, not knowing if he was ever going to wake up again.

* * *

For weeks now, Sherlock had survived. The cave had been a source of refuge, he had managed to successfully make multiple fires, he had eaten a variety of foods including berries, roots, tree bark (yes, it was as disgusting as it sounds), wild nuts and anything that happened to move (actually, learning to cook wild duck was a blessing in itself. Sherlock had enjoyed the taste thoroughly). He had located water, which just happened to have fish in it. All in all, for a place to be dumped in to die, it wasn't ultimately bad.

While he himself had survived, he was more concerned about his child. For weeks and weeks he had felt no movement, no indication that his child was alright. He had also still suffered through dreadful morning sickness, which in itself was enough to make him fear that his child was in trouble…

There were nights where he wanted to give up and weep. But he never did. He knew he had to stay alert, keep an eye on his health. He couldn't waste his time crying when he had a child to keep alive.

Late one night, while he was watching the stars in the night sky and stroking his abdomen; he suddenly felt a little _kick._

Sherlock jolted and gasped. Placing his hand back against his stomach, he waited, and then felt another little kick.

Sherlock felt tears flood to his eyes, and made no effort to stop them falling as he clapped his hands over his mouth.

"You're alive!" Sherlock gasped, trembling slightly "you're ok!" he practically sang out to the heavens "you're alright, _you're alive_!"

He collapsed back against the wall of the cave, wiping his eyes.

"Are you turning somersaults in there?" he questioned, still halting his tears. In all truths, he was relieved, in every sense of the word. His child was alive, they hadn't succumbed to Mycroft's attack or the brutal nature of the remote countryside.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, and then laid it across his stomach.

"You're alive my love" Sherlock whispered "everything's going to be alright now, daddy's here, he's going to keep you safe…"

* * *

'...aaa…t…eeeee'

'Mmm-aa-t…e'

'M-a-t-e, arrrre yoooou oook?'

John could hear voices floating across his mind. His eyes remained firmly shut. He could slowly feel himself drifting further way…

'Shhitt…'

'Do-n't panic…'

'C-a-ll an ammmmmbulllance…'

'Ch-r-isssttt, he'sss in a baaad way…'

'Fuuuckinnng hell, lllook at his eyyyes…'

'Pooooor sod..."

"Blllooody hell, thhhhe poorrrr guyyyy..."

'Do-n't… worry m-aa-t-eee, we're getting helllp now…'

'S-t-a-y wiithh us… dooon't drift away…'

**Blackness**


	19. Chapter 19

"_You'll never see Sherlock or your child again…!"_

"_He's my lover, he's my husband…"_

"_If you kill me, you'll never find your precious friend…"_

"…_The cold will snap Sherlock eventually, and when it does, it will freeze his heart, and his child's into the bargain…"_

"_Good luck finding your precious Sherlock…"_

_Sherlock…_

Sherlock…

**SHERLOCK!**

John snapped up and grappled with thin air, hearing voices calling him.

"Calm down Mr Watson…"

"Lie down John…"

John recognised one of the voices as he found himself set back down.

"Lestrade…" John drawled.

"It's me mate" Lestrade replied "just relax, lie back down…"

"Where am I?" John groaned.

"You're in hospital" he heard another voice explain "John, my name is Doctor Bill Murray; I'm here to look after you.

"H…how did I get here?"

"You were found by two hikers; supposably you've been wandering around the woods for several weeks now. They brought you back here. You were severely dehydrated, rambling, and you collapsed before you arrived. We've hooked you up to an IV; we're monitoring your heart rate. You were in serious threat of having a heart attack."

"Murray… what about my eyes?" John asked, feeling a headache thumping above his right eye.

He heard the Doctor hesitate "John… I am afraid there is permanent damage to your eyes now."

John felt tears in the corner of his eyes "Murray, Lestrade, where is Sherlock, where is my husband?"

He heard Lestrade sit next to him on the bed "John, who's Sherlock?"

Instead of answering, John let his head drop into his hands and wept.

He heard Doctor Murray muttering to Lestrade, before the door to the room opened and shut again tightly.

"John…" Lestrade spoke gently "John, we're alone now. Please tell me John, who's Sherlock?"

"My husband" John wept "he's gone, my husband's gone!"

"John!" Lestrade replied "please, start from the beginning…"

"You won't understand!" John sobbed.

"But I want to try" Lestrade answered "please tell me John, I want to help…"

John hesitated, before he sighed, flopped back into the pillows and began his story.

He told Lestrade about the mysterious music, then about how he had discovered the tower. He told him about Mycroft, about Sherlock's glorious hair, and about the man himself. He spoke about their friendship, their escape plan and their eventual marriage. He whispered about returning to the tower and finding Sherlock gone, finding Mycroft waiting and finding himself blinded and thrown out of a window.

When he had finished, John waited to hear Lestrade's response.

"John…" he felt Lestrade grasp his hand "I just… don't have words."

John felt his heart clench, but Lestrade continued.

"John... I know how bloody impossible things must seem, but... shit John..." Lestrade was stumbling over his words "John, you've survived a war, survived a term being stuck in your own reality and obviously been through a rather chaste-though no doubt incredibly loving-relationship with Sherlock... God John, I'll be damned if I'm going to let you give up on him!"

John listened as Lestrade continued "your darling is out there somewhere, and John-when you love someone, you don't give up on them. You fight for them, you go to Hell and back for them, you dance with the Devil if it means you persist for the person you love! Your devotion will conquer everything if only you absolutely try..."

Lestrade stopped as John flung his arms around him.

"John?" Lestrade asked nervously, worried that the man might be having a mental breakdown.

But John was alright. He held Lestrade in his own embrace, before speaking quietly to him.

"Lestrade..." the words-and there were so many of them to be said-just wouldn't come. In the end he just murmured "thank you, just... thank you."

Lestrade smiled. He knew everything would be said in due course, but for now the simple thanks were enough. They meant so much more, and Lestrade knew it.

John wiped his eyes "I have to go and find him now!" he tried to move, but Lestrade held him down.

"Not now John, you're still seriously hurt, we've got to make sure you don't run the risk of a heart attack…"

John sighed and reluctantly agreed, leaning back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

He knew he wasn't any good to Sherlock lying in a hospital bed, but he was certainly no use to him dead…

* * *

After a week's worth of intensive care, John was finally released, with a new cane to help him walk around.

Lestrade bid him farewell at the entrance.

"Now John, bloody well promise me you'll be careful, alright?" Lestrade spoke, embracing John.

"Of course" John replied "I have to go now, I have to find Sherlock!"

"Good luck" Lestrade nodded "I can't wait to meet him!"

John grinned, turned and walked off down the street.

He had no idea where he was going to start, but Lestrade's words were still ringing in his mind.

It gave him a serene sense of hope, a sense of calmness, a sense of power… John was now convinced there was a spark-even only one tiny spark-of hope that he just might find Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock was freezing.

He pulled his coat even tighter around himself, shivering as the bitter winds pierced his skin.

He had had a god-awful day. The weather had been berserk, he couldn't get his fire to light, and the baby had been a constant source of stress. He had continually gotten up to vomit over the course of the day, and was now lying against the wall of the cave, cursing the world.

The child suddenly gave another kick to his stomach, and a wave of nausea swelled in his throat. He managed to push it back down, but he couldn't stop his anger rising.

He was sick to death of this, being pregnant, fat and lame. He hated his brain seeming so slow and incapable of work and deductions…

"For GOD'S SAKE!" he screamed at his stomach, not caring if he looked like a madman "GIVE IT A REST!" he felt his hormonal swell ride up in a wave, and within seconds he was in a mixture of tears and anger.

"It's all your fault!" he shrieked at the baby in his stomach "I've been sick, sore, and practically immobile, and all because of you!"

He banged his fists against the wall of the cave and a shouted some more "you are infertile, lame and incapable of surviving outside of my womb in your current phase, so I should expect you'd be more BLOODY GRATEFUL that I have chosen to keep you alive as long as I have! But oh, I wish you didn't exist!"

He clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words had left. He regretted them instantly.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, tears filling his eyes "I didn't mean that, I'm sorry…"

He stroked his stomach and cried, cursing the damned hormones that were running high. He didn't get a free ticket just because he happened to be Sherlock Holmes.

"I didn't mean a word…" he wept "I'm sorry, my love, I'm so sorry…"

* * *

After a long while of weeping and apologising to his stomach, Sherlock finally fell back, exhausted. The stars were starting to come out, and he felt his tears well up again. But different tears this time. Not tears of anger or regret, but tears of sadness. He knew it wasn't his ridiculous hormones, or his sociopathic nature which was so vibrant around Mycroft. This was honest sadness.

"Oh John" he whispered to the night sky "all I want now is your love; I love you with all my heart. My poor, dear husband, where are you now?"

Sherlock sniffed and tried (unsuccessfully) to wipe his eyes "where are you now my love?" he cried softly "why can't you be here with me now?"

He received no reply, of course. The countryside was as empty as he felt. He drew his knees up to his chest, finding the action difficult due to the current size of his stomach, and became lost in his own thoughts.

"Even out in this unforgiving terrain, I would be happy…"

Sherlock couldn't remember happiness without John. He didn't care if the words he spoke made sense or not, no matter how melodramatic he was being. He was alone, he was lost, and probably in at least twenty kinds of danger, from hypothermia to starvation, wild animals to heatstroke. And all for the sake of the undistinguished fetus growing in his stomach.

After another long moment of staring at the stars, he picked up his violin and started playing a haunting melody.

The music swept up into the night air and was carried away by the stars. There was an undeniable sadness, a pain which couldn't be spoken of, and it seeped through the notes of the music. Sherlock increased the level of his tune, wanting the world to hear his song, feel his pain, understand what he was going through and what he had lost.

In the final note, Sherlock fell back against the wall of the cave, closing his eyes and letting the remains of the music scatter out amongst the stars.


	20. Chapter 20

Months had passed, and John was no closer to finding his husband than the Doctor was to finding out how to control the TARDIS.

He had been through cities and towns, asking everyone he met if they had heard of or seen a handsome man with glorious curls, answering to the name of Sherlock Holmes.

Nobody had. It always seemed like a hopeless case. Nobody knew where his beloved husband was, and John was in a state of loss.

The loss came and went from various places he visited, but he remembered feeling an especial feeling of worthlessness during his first few days of wandering around London, new to being blind and still coming to terms with his condition and his loss.

He was received in a variety of ways. Most people took pity on him because of his disability and the hideous scar that ran across his eyes (the knife, like his bullet wound, had left its mark) and offered him a bed and breakfast before he went on his way.

But not everyone was as kind. John had succumbed to name-calling and vicious insults from tossers who couldn't see past their own noses. He mainly succumbed to homophobic slurs, but people weren't afraid to take the piss out of him about the hideous scar which now ran furiously across his eyes. One group of boozed up men had even thrown a broken bottle at his head and calling him a 'blind faggot' before pelting him with rocks. John had returned to his hotel that night and wept.

But he wasn't going to give up. He repeated Lestrade's words in his head every day, and he knew he wouldn't rest until his husband was safe in his arms again.

After a long day (he had received a lot of kindness that day, but one group of teenage boys had told him to fuck off, and an old man had called him a 'a bloody one man gay-pride rally' after John had explained he was looking for his husband.)

John was turning away dejected, before he heard another voice coming into the scene.

It was a woman's. She was telling the old man to 'fuck off and open your mind your old git' before John felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright love?" the voice asked.

It was an older woman's voice, perhaps in her sixties. John nodded.

"Thank you for that, I'm sorry to be a bother…"

"It's not a problem dear. I can't stand such closed minded ignorant people" she sighed, before patting John's shoulder "who are you looking for love?"

"My husband" John composed himself "his name is Sherlock, you wouldn't have heard of him?"

"I'm afraid not love" the woman sighed "you poor dear…" she patted his back again "don't give up lovey, you'll find him sooner or later! The world's only so big, he's out there somewhere!"

John couldn't help but smile. "Thank you" he grinned, gently pecking the woman's cheek "just… thank you for all your help."

"Not a problem dear" the woman replied, "and ignore what those people say about your scar. it's not something to be ashamed of." He heard her sigh sadly "if only people could understand…"

John felt his hand tracing the woman's arm, and he pulled back after feeling a long, raised line."

"Scars are not ugly" he heard the woman say "they reflect a part of us. Some fade with time, but other's remain always" she patted John's arm "I had a terrible argument with my husband, a 12 inch butcher's knife…" he felt the poor lady shudder "that's why it is such a pleasure for me to see people who are clearly in love."

John took her hand "what happened to your husband…?"

"He's gone now" he heard the woman reply "died of a stroke two years ago, about a month after I received this" she moved away from John.

"Scars can be a reminder of a battle won" she spoke "a battle which we fought for what we believed in, and we either came out successful or dead" her next words came out with a hint of proudness in them "and I know you will be the former."

And within a moment, John was left alone.

John's fingers reached up and lightly traced the scar over his eyes. He felt a knew surge of confidence course through him.

And thusly, he continued on his way, stopping another person to ask if they had seen his beloved husband.

* * *

Sherlock was lying against the wall of the cave again. After another meal of leftover fish and berries (if you can call _that _a meal) he was well rested and looking out over the world, softly playing the violin, an exquisite expression of calmness emerging from the strings.

As he reached the climax of the piece, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen.

He wondered if he could have been imagining it, as it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.

But then it appeared again, the same, piercing pain, and this time, Sherlock felt the undesirable urge to push.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide in horror. This was _it._ After so many months of tears and turmoil, loneliness and bouts of joy, pain and infrequent happiness, pain and wellbeing, it had all come down to this. His child was ready.

Sherlock wasn't.

He panicked. His baby was ready to be born, and he didn't have a clue as to what to do.

Realising a smart option would be to remove everything on his lower half, he did so, almost crying out from the pain, and lay back down.

He gritted his teeth as an extremely tense contraction burst through him, and he found himself desperately wishing for John as tears rolled down his cheeks.

But even through the pain and the tears, Sherlock knew what he had to do. Call it instinct or nature, but Sherlock had a theory.

He knew he had to try and be as relaxed as possible. If he was too tense, that could cause major problems further down the line.

He took deep breaths, calming all of his senses and focussing on the task in front of him, before he began to work in tandem with what his body was signalling for him to do.

* * *

It was a long and arduous birth. There were many point were the contractions were so painful that Sherlock was sure he was dying. He felt screams ripping through him as the pain became extreme, and he found himself screaming John's name, in equal turns cursing him and wishing for him.

There were tears. There were extreme bouts of anger. There was cursing and shrieking, but Sherlock remained _remotely_ calm. He recited the periodic table over and over again, mulled over possible note combinations for his violin and prayed to a higher power of any form to either end him or his pain.

But eventually, after many hours of contractions and constant pain, it was finally over. Sherlock slumped back and heard a tiny, newborn cry.

Sherlock had done it. He had done what he had thought himself incapable to do-any man incapable to do-and now the proof was in front of him in the form of a baby boy, red in the face and crying.

Sherlock breathed deeply, before taking the child in his arms. After a moment or so worth of hushing gently, the child quietened and huddled into Sherlock's embrace, breathing hitching in a tiny sigh, before falling asleep in his father's arms.

Sherlock looked down at the child nestled in his arms, and felt tears rush to his eyes. The child was beautiful and Sherlock fell in love instantly.

He leant down and kissed the baby's head, and choked on love as one tiny hand absent-mindedly reached up and stroked his cheek.

He thought of John, his heart bursting in a wave of emotion. He remembered John's middle name, a name which had spoken during their wedding vows. And now he had a beautiful child cradled in his arms, who was clearly in want of a name, a unique identity…

"Hamish" he whispered, coming up with the perfect name on the spot "Hamish Watson-Holmes."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Three years later…**_

A young child-who couldn't have been more than three years old-came running across the empty English countryside, mist surrounding him and frost nipping at his ankles.

He was thin, with straight brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. Despite the obvious bitterness of the day, he had wide grin on his face as he raced up a rocky path towards a cave opening, with a battered, wooden object in clutched in his hand as though it was a pirate's treasure.

"Papa!" the child called as he raced into the cave entrance "Papa, look what I made!"

A young man turned around. Even through the bitter winds and freezing nights, through all the perils that the empty countryside had been a strain, it was as clear as day that Sherlock was still a great beauty.

His blue-grey eyes were still shining, his smile still endearing and he still had a head of glorious, thick, dark tresses.

"Yes Hamish?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Look!" Hamish grinned, holding up a dented, worn wooden comb "I made you a brush for your hair!"

Sherlock smiled "thank you my darling" he replied, taking the comb from him.

"Will you try it now?" Hamish questioned eagerly.

"Of course" Sherlock grinned, before seating himself in front of chipped looking glass. He ran the comb through his short, chocolate brown locks, whilst Hamish knelt beside him. The child couldn't help but stare in awe as he watched his father arrange his silken tresses.

"Papa?" Hamish questioned.

"Yes Hamish?" Sherlock replied.

"Why is it that I've got your hair colour, but my hair isn't curly?" Hamish questioned.

"Well, that's because you've got your Father's hair" Sherlock replied.

Hamish shuffled up and rested his head on Sherlock's knee "will you tell me more about my Father?" he questioned softly.

Sherlock smiled. It was one that was made up half of joy, and half of sadness. But he had always been honest with Hamish about John, even if the pain was deep.

"Your Father" Sherlock smiled, running his hand through Hamish's soft hair "was the most wonderful, the most handsome, the most amazing man that I have ever met. He taught me about emotions, about how to experience joy and happiness. He was the first and only man I have ever loved, and it was through his love that you came into my life. He meant everything to me and he still does, as you do now" Sherlock knelt down and kissed Hamish's forehead.

"But why is he not here?" Hamish asked "why is it just you and me?" he grasped Sherlock's hands "is Father dead?"

"No!" Sherlock gasped "never Hamish, your father is alive, but he cannot be with us now. We were separated years ago, whilst I was still pregnant with you."

Hamish blinked up at his Papa, his blue eyes large and questioning.

"Why were you separated?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled his same, sad smile, then stood up and spun Hamish around to face the mirror.

"Would you believe my love" he asked softly "if I told you I once had gloriously long hair?"

Hamish looked at his Papa's reflection in the mirror "you mean, longer than it is now?" he asked.

"My dear child" Sherlock smiled "my hair was once so long that it fell past my shoulders-" he lightly traced Hamish's shoulders "-down to my waist-" he traced Hamish's waist "-fell past my ankles and swept the floor like a wedding train of chocolate curls" he clasped Hamish's hands, who stared at him in awe.

"Are you really telling the truth?" he asked in amazement.

Sherlock nodded "of course my love" he whispered "and my tresses, they became my connection to your Father, a bond which brought us together and made our love so much stronger…"

Hamish grasped his Papa's hands and stared deeply into his eyes "what happened?"

Sherlock hesitated "well… one day, my hair was cut" Sherlock explained, withering at the memory "and when my tresses were scissored and fell to the floor, I lost your father, and I lost everything I had ever known…" Sherlock continued "I remember I wept, not just because my tresses had been cut, but because with every snip that the scissors made, every slice that the blades made as they cut through my tresses and with every silken curl that fell to the floor, I felt the pain of losing your Father…"

Hamish grasped his Papa's hands, blinking up at him with wise, blue eyes.

"Do you miss him Papa?" Hamish questioned softly.

Sherlock nodded "every day my love, every day..."

Hamish couldn't stand the look on his Papa's face. He looked so sad that Hamish's heart almost broke in two. He held his Papa's hands slightly tighter.

"I wish he was here" Hamish spoke gently "because then you would be happy."

Sherlock pulled Hamish into his arms "I am happy my darling" he whispered into Hamish's hair "I have you…"

He kissed Hamish's forehead "you make my life worth living, my beautiful, brave, Hamish Watson Holmes. You are a wonderful, clever, caring boy, and I know if your Father was here, he would be so proud of you."

Hamish smiled as the embrace broke apart and he rested his head on his Papa's knee, looking up into his intelligent, blue-grey eyes.

"Papa" he asked "will you play something for me on your violin?"

Sherlock grinned, before picking up his violin and bow "what would you like me to play my darling?"

"Play your 'Hope Song'" Hamish begged "the one you said was Father's favourite!"

Sherlock smiled "as you wish."

The music began, and swelled out of Sherlock's violin. The rich, melodic, yet still softly saddening opening notes played out, making Hamish's heart clench at the sound.

He could hear his Papa's pain pouring out from the notes, a sort of pain that only came from loss, from loneliness…

But then the music changed, a gorgeous climatic build up came soaring from the violin's strings, a kind of gorgeous hope which rose from the heart of the musician. Sherlock's happiness with his child, his love for John and his hope that they would one day be reunited came soaring out through the strings of his violin, a beautiful finale that Hamish would never tire of hearing.

As his Papa played the final notes, Hamish burst out in applause. Sherlock bowed, before kissing Hamish's forehead.

"Run along and play now" he murmured quietly a smile tracing his lips "there are still some hours of daylight left."

Hamish kissed his Papa's cheek, before running off outside. Sherlock smiled again, before lifting up his violin, and playing another glorious tune to the empty countryside mist.


	22. Chapter 22

Wherever John was at this current time, he was freezing.

There was a terrible chill in the air, and he could practically feel the mist seeping around his ankles. He pulled his jumper closer to him and shivered, the chill seeping through the stitches and towards his heart.

He had been looking for years now. Three years…

He had gone all over the place. He had passed cities, towns, countryside, villages and farms. From some remarkable course, he had kept himself alive, but his heart grew weaker with every person who responded with a 'no' when asked if they had seen his husband.

He was at loss. Despite constantly repeating the woman and Lestrade's words in his head, he still felt his heart sinking, growing more dejected with every day that passed.

He had never been more alone. In the army he had his comrades, back in London he had his family and Lestrade. Out here in the empty countryside, he had no one.

But he refused to give up. He would never stop looking for Sherlock. Three years seemed long, but it was nothing compared to what John had expected. If he spent the rest of his life looking for his husband, then so be it.

John inhaled sharply, and the bitter wind flew into his lungs. Coughing, he sank down and found himself sitting on a rock.

He buried his face in his hands and felt a familiar prickle of tears forming. But he wouldn't cry _god damn it_. He had wept enough tears in the past three years to top Niagara Falls.

But John couldn't help himself. He was tired, worn and sick of being parted from his husband. For three years he hadn't felt Sherlock's touch, hadn't lost himself in his embrace, hadn't experienced Sherlock's sweet lips against his own…

As he was thinking about all of this, he felt several tears fall down his face. Cursing silently, he tried to wipe them away, but to no avail.

John knew he had never loved anyone like Sherlock. He'd had relationships, but none of them had been like Sherlock. Sherlock was the only person John had ever felt some kind of real connection to. He could look in Sherlock's eyes and know that Sherlock was the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

As the bitter winds swirled around him, John cried. He cried for his loss, he cried for his past, and he cried because he was sick and tired of not hearing his husband's voice.

As he sobbed, he heard the faint stirrings of a violin.

"Oh fantastic" he wept "hallucinations, just what I need. It doesn't matter anyway, I've been dreaming of your music for the last three years…"

The violin got louder, and John cursed at the memory. Why must he still be tormented with his husband's memory? He half shivered and half sobbed as the music swelled and became the glorious song he had known in a time which felt so long ago…

He suddenly felt a small tug at his left side, and a child's voice spoke to him.

"Excuse me sir?" it said "are you alright?"

John froze. He reached a hand out and ran a hand down the child's face. The voice was male, he could recognise that. He felt the child take his hand gently and repeat his question.

"Are you alright?" the boy repeated, clutching John's hand tightly.

"Are you real?" John questioned gently. He couldn't believe it. How could there possibly be another human being out in such an empty wilderness?

"I'm real!" the little boy laughed and John felt his pulse race.

"You promise?" John asked dumbly "it's so empty out here, I just don't see how…"

The child grasped his hand "I promise" he replied gently "I'm not imaginary, I'm real."

John sighed with relief and nodded. To hear another human voice in the desolate emptiness was a blessing in itself.

"What's your name?" John asked softly, stroking the child's hair.

"Hamish" he heard the boy reply "Hamish Watson-Holmes."

John stopped stroking the boy's hair. He felt his breath catch, and in retaliation he grasped the child's hands. He felt tears against the corner of his eyes, but refused to let them fall.

"Watson-Holmes?" he asked gently, his voice catching "Hamish Watson-Holmes…"

"Yes" he heard the boy reply "Hamish Watson-Holmes."

John realised he was forgetting to breath. Once he had reconfirmed his ability. His next question came out in a shaky whisper.

"That violin…" he whispered "please tell me that music is real…"

"Of course" Hamish replied "that's my father playing, isn't he wonderful?"

John's heart leapt, his face flushed, he felt unsteady. This melody, such of which he hadn't heard in three years, was real. The child standing in front of him was real, and his name was Hamish Watson Holmes…

"Yes!" John gasped in joy "oh yes, he is wonderful… oh please, will you take me to him?"

"Of course!" the child replied, taking John's hand "come on!"

He helped John stand up and pulled him along. John nearly tripped several times, but his heart was soaring.

He was also frightened. In some horrible way, he felt this could all just be a series of coincidences. What if he was wrong, and this was all just some kind of mad joke or another insane hallucination…?

But he had to see. He had to go and find out the answer for himself. And with Hamish's hand clutched in his own, a new kind of confidence coursed through him.

He felt himself pulled up a rocky path, stones crunching under his feet, before he heard Hamish call out "Papa, there's someone here, he wants to see you!"

John felt himself pulled out of the freezing air. He could feel the warmth of a fire near him, and he could still feel Hamish's hand in his own. The beautiful violin played on, and he could feel the musician's warmth not all that far away from him.

John felt the musician turn around, before the violin was cut of abruptly. He heard a clatter as the instrument fell to the floor. There was a silence, before he heard the musician choke out, in a shocked whisper.

"John…"

With that one word, John found the confirmation that his search was finally over. He choked on a wave of a thousand emotions as he answered.

"Sherlock…"


	23. Chapter 23

"Papa, there's someone here, he wants to see you!"

Hamish's voice came from the mouth of the cave, and Sherlock smiled. His son always made an entrance, and Sherlock was always overjoyed to see him.

Sherlock turned, still playing his violin, when his eyes beheld the picture in front of him.

His Hamish, clutching the hand of a golden haired, jumper wearing man.

Sherlock froze. His throat dried up and in his shock, he dropped the violin, hearing a distant clatter as it hit the floor.

"John…" Sherlock choked, wondering if he was looking at some kind of miraculous dream.

But then his dream spoke.

"Sherlock…"

* * *

Sherlock felt tears race to his eyes. They were tears of joy, tears of inconsolable sadness that had built up over the three years, tears of hope and tears of love. He raced forward and gently took John's hands. John didn't disappear, and Sherlock's hope was confirmed.

"My John…" he whispered as tears fell down his cheeks "oh my dear beloved John, my husband!"

Without hesitation, he leaned forward and captured John's lips in a kiss.

This was a different kiss. This was a kiss that they had saved for three years. A kiss of love and a kiss of longing. A kiss of hope and a kiss of sadness. A kiss which was filled with a mixture of joy and rapidly erasing loneliness, a kiss which was both passionate and sweet, glorious and gorgeous. It was a kiss that could bring the world to its knees.

During their kiss, he felt John embrace him, and when he raised his hand to cup John's cheek, he felt John's tears as they fell from his eyes.

"John..." Sherlock gasped between their passion "oh John, my John, my John!"

He couldn't find the words. His throat was blocked with every emotion he had ever experienced, his eyes filled with tears, yet still refusing to let his focus slip from his husband. He knew how unlike him this was, to be reprised with such a passionate farce of character, when he was usually so cold and unbidden with average society. But he didn't care how insanely tearful he was, how he was inexplicably swept up into an embrace that was in equal measures passionate and collapsing.

He embraced his husband as though he was afraid he would disappear within the next instant. All he could do was reassure himself that John was in his arms and alive_alive_**alive. **That he wasn't only a maddening dream that was bound to disappear within the next instant. John was here, John was alive and Sherlock swore he would never be parted from him again, for as long as the sands against the sea of time still flowed freely for them both.

He looked deeply into John's eyes, and gasped.

"John! What happened to your eyes?" Sherlock gasped, his eyes widened in horror. John's eyes were clouded over in a sort of glassy mist, with an angry red scar running near his lids.

John-who up until that moment had been too overcome to say anything-now took Sherlock's hands and knelt before him, passionately kissing his knuckles. Sherlock watched him anxiously, feeling slightly dizzy after revisiting his passion after so many years of separation. This sensation was everything he had lived for, even dared to _thrive_ for.

"Sherlock" John whispered "for three years I've been searching for you. I never gave up in the hope that I would find you, though I will admit that there were many times I would have liked to…" John paused and used the moment recollect himself and wipe away some of his own tears "it always seemed like an impossible task, but now that I've found you, I never intend to let you go again…" he hesitated.

"I'm… blind now Sherlock" John whispered almost silently. His words were repressed, but every syllable struck Sherlock's ears like a silver bell "I realise that this means I will never be able to witness your beauty again, but I hope that you can find some way to take me in your arms and still tell me you love me…"

He was silenced as Sherlock's lips captured his own. He embraced his lover, before he felt Sherlock kneel and gently cradle him.

"I love you John Hamish Watson-Holmes" Sherlock half wept, half whispered, not caring how foolish or how hopelessly romantic he looked "all these years and I've never stopped thinking about you, not for a moment…" he stroked John's cheek "my John Watson Holmes…"

There were no more words after that. Sherlock could do nothing but weep. He wept for his husband's pain, he wept for three lost years, and he wept with happiness, love and an everlasting spark of hope which had always existed.

He knew he looked hideous when he properly wept. His eyes screwed up and he felt the undesirable human need to wail, dribble and sigh, things which dignified gentlemen usually separated themselves from. But he couldn't help himself. John was enclosed in his arms, John was safe, John was alive...

As he cried, some of his tears fell onto John's eyes, merging with John's own tears and creating a not unpleasant sensation. John reached up and cradled Sherlock's cheek as he cried, still feeling his husband's tears land on his blank pupils, quietly reassuring the damaged man that he wasn't going to disappear...

Then he saw a flash of light. At first he thought that he was seeing things, but the flash of light appeared again and didn't disappear.

Slowly the light formed a shape and colours. A brilliant flash of chocolate brown stood out, a brilliant shade he could only remember seeing on one object in his life…

"Sherlock!" John gasped "Sherlock! I can see something!"

Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared into John's clouded eyes…

"W…what?" Sherlock gasped in surprise, clutching John's arm.

"Your hair!" John gaped in excitement "Sherlock, I can see your hair, I can see you!"

Sherlock gently cupped John's face and watched as the mist in John's eyes slowly dissolved and the scar slowly faded. He could hardly dare to believe it as John lifted his head and revealed his glorious, azure eyes.

John reached out and clutched Sherlock's hands. After years in darkness, the sudden light was a difficult thing to get used to. After a moment's worth of blinking, he took in Sherlock's grey-blue eyes, his disbelieving yet gorgeously excited expression and his now short chocolate-brown curls.

John bent his head and kissed Sherlock's hand passionately.

"You're even more beautiful than I remember" John whispered.

Sherlock gave a cry of delight, and the pair embraced passionately. Sherlock laughed with a mixture of pure amazement and joy at John's sudden recovery.

Neither man knew what to say. It was a miracle. Even Sherlock-a scientist in every sense of the word-couldn't explain it. But John was safe. John was in his arms. John was home. And with his husband cradled in his embrace, Sherlock was sure that he would never be alone again.

John couldn't resist running his hands through Sherlock's hair, which was still as soft as the day he had first climbed the beautiful tresses to meet his lover.

"I can't believe it" John grinned "I just can't…"

"You don't have to believe it" Sherlock laughed, not caring the slightest in the sense of composing himself "it's an apparent fact."

The pair wiped their eyes, still unable to resist each other's gazes. Then Sherlock remembered there was somebody else in the room.

He turned to Hamish and beckoned to him gently.

"John, this is our son, Hamish" Sherlock explained as Hamish smiled shyly.

If it was possible for John's grin to get any wider, then it did in that moment.

"This handsome boy is ours?" John questioned, and Sherlock nodded.

Hamish edged over slowly-almost cautiously- and examined John properly. He gently stroked John's cheek, and took in John's short, golden hair and his deep blue eyes. Without another moment's hesitation, Hamish smiled and wrapped his arms around John.

John fought urgently to stop any more tears falling, but they came anyway. He couldn't help but notice that a wet patch was growing on his shoulder as well.

"Don't cry" he whispered into Hamish's hair, to both the child and Sherlock "I promise you, we'll never be parted again…"

Once their embrace broke apart, John held Hamish's hands and directed his gaze at both his child and Sherlock.

"Let's get out of this wretched place" he smiled softly "I'll take you both home to London" he blinked shyly at Sherlock "and then I hope that a proper wedding ceremony might be in order?"

Sherlock grinned broadly and Hamish looked delighted.

"Let's go now" Sherlock nodded "I've been waiting too long to leave this god-awful place."

And so, armed with only a violin, the three set out into the empty countryside. Hamish walked in between his two Father's, watching as they exchanged loving glances and words of love.

They were finally together. After three years and turning bouts of pain, joy and loneliness, they were finally together, and home in one and other's arms. Just them and the beautiful family they had created.

**Note: My dear friends and readers fear not! This story is not over yet. Yes, our two lovers have found each other again, yes John's eyesight has been restored and yes, they are returning home. But there is more to come, so this plane will not be landing quite yet! (Any passengers who require drink refills, please come up to the flight desk at Chapter 24). **

**By the way, in the original story, there is no explanation as to how the prince's eyesight is restored. So I'm terribly sorry to say that I can't really expand on this idea here! And yes, there were a lot of tears in this chapter, and it was very OOC. But I declined to imagine that I could possibly write this chapter without a proper emotional reunion, and I wanted to explore a significant moment in the original story which is usually either rushed or glossed over. So if it's too OOC for you're liking, then I sincerely apologise. No hard feelings?**


	24. Chapter 24

The whole time they walked, Sherlock discussed the last three years with John. After a while, Hamish grew tired and fell asleep, so John carried him on his shoulders.

"What about your scar?" Sherlock questioned, remembering John's war wound.

"The pain's gone" John smiled in return "besides, Hamish is more important."

The pair walked on. The mist was beginning to clear the farther they went, and it was becoming warmer. Sherlock felt the sun on his back, and he couldn't stop himself from clutching John's hand and kissing it softly.

"Oh John" Sherlock whispered, indulging in the brief passion of John's skin against his lips "all of that time when I was pregnant, I thought I was alone…"

John gently moved Hamish off of his shoulders and placed him across his lap, clutching Sherlock's hand. For a moment, he felt a brief spark of electricity between them, their enlightened passion...

"You're not alone anymore" John whispered "you'll never be alone again Sherlock, I promise…"

The pair stayed sat by one and other for a while. John gently stroked Hamish's hair as he huddled down in his arms.

"I can't take my eyes off of him" he whispered.

Sherlock smiled, noting the proud tone which lingered against John's words. Even after so long, so many departed years, John had retained his adoration. And now his love for his husband was slowly being equalized into the love for his child.

"He reminds me so much of you" Sherlock replied softly, kissing John's forehead "his temperament, his words, his compassion... He's gained your understanding of general life."

John smiled and leant into Sherlock's touch. He absentmindedly stroked Sherlock's short tresses. He felt an anger boil inside him as he felt the brittle ends, clashing with the silken curls. He imagined Mycroft seizing Sherlock, hacking off his beautiful tresses, berating him and threatening him... It made John's heart weaken at the thought of anyone harming Sherlock.

"How could Mycroft be so cruel?" John whispered "it's all my fault that this happened Sherlock…"

"If our love hadn't happened, we would never have the beautiful child we do now" Sherlock stated firmly "it was worth losing my tresses if it meant I could have a child. Mycroft threatened to kill him, but I stood by my ground" Sherlock paused looking for the right words.

"I stood by because I knew I was all but done for, but I refused to let him take away the one precious life that had been handed to me…"

Sherlock was silenced as John leant up and kissed him lovingly. As they broke apart, John cupped Sherlock's face.

"I am not saying I wish that Hamish had never been born" John whispered "I only wish he could have been born under different circumstances. He's spent the first three years of his life without me…" John's breath hitched "I just want to have the opportunity to be a proper father to him."

He clutched Sherlock's hand "it terrified me, to think that you were alone, out there somewhere in the world and pregnant. I wanted to be there to support you, to keep you safe" John paused, swallowing hard.

"I was a wreck without you" he whispered "I was terrified, I'm not afraid to admit that. Three years in darkness, searching for that blind hope that remained. The hope that you were still alive, with our child…" John looked down at Hamish "all my hopes have been answered now…"

Sherlock embraced John again; being careful of Hamish's sleeping form.

"You will be a perfect Father" he whispered blissfully into John's golden tresses "Hamish adores you already."

John smiled gently, before moving Hamish back onto his shoulders. Sherlock took John's hand, and the pair continued on their way.

* * *

For five days they walked, getting into a fantastic combination of hopelessly lost and incredibly lucky. After a bitter five days, Sherlock gave a cry of delight when-on the fifth night-they caught the lights of a town blinking in the distance.

Hamish was practically jumping up and down in excitement as they made their way through the town's frosty streets. After only living in the empty countryside for three years, he was naturally curious about everything and behaved like a newborn animal, darting to and fro to look at everything he could find.

The managed to bargain a deal with the owner of a shabby hotel, and booked a room for the night. Hamish was instantly fascinated with the idea of having a bed, and couldn't resist jumping up and down on it. Sherlock and John joined in, cautiously at first, but they were soon springing up and down before collapsing in a heap of laughter.

* * *

As Sherlock attended to Hamish, John made a hasty call from the landline down the hall. He waited anxiously as the phone rang, before a familiar voice came from down the other end.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade, it's John"

He heard a strangled gasp from down the other end of the line.

"John!" he heard Lestrade cry "good fucking god, is it really you?!"

"It is" John grinned "listen, I've got two bits of good news and one bit of bad news…"

"Good news first mate!" Lestrade answered eagerly "Christ, it's been so long…"

"Well, the good news is, I've found Sherlock!" John replied happily.

He giggled as he heard Lestrade give a whoop of delight down the other end of the phone.

"That's fantastic!" he heard Lestrade call "bloody fantastic! What's the other good news?"

"You won't believe this," John explained "but I can see again!"

There was a shocked silence down the other end of the phone "you're joking…"

"I'm serious!" John called out joyfully.

He heard Lestrade give a thunderous shout of applause.

"That's _brilliant_!" Lestrade cried "John, I'm so happy for you, that's wonderful!"

John smiled as Lestrade calmed himself down, congratulating him all the while "the bad news is, I'm afraid we've only just found the closest town, and I don't have any money on me, so I might not be home for a while…"

"I'll stop you right there" Lestrade paused him quickly "where are you now? I'm coming to get you."

John was struck dumb "are you serious?!"

"John, you are my friend, you have had two serious miracles bestowed upon you and I haven't seen you in three years" Lestrade explained "what's your current address?"

John gave Lestrade the address, thanking him the whole time.

"It's not a worry John" Lestrade replied "there! I've got it now, I'll be there first thing tomorrow to pick the three of you up."

John profoundly thanked Lestrade again and again, before the pair bid each other farewell and hung up. John made his way back to the hotel room.

* * *

When he arrived, Sherlock had Hamish tucked into bed and was softly humming one of his violin solos under his breath. John leaned against the doorway, feeling his heart fill with a mixture of love and contentment as he watched Sherlock finish the beautiful tune and lift his head.

"Lestrade's coming to pick us up tomorrow" John explained "he can't wait to meet you and Hamish."

Sherlock smiled, strolling over and kissing John's lips softly.

"Wonderful" he whispered, covering his mouth as a yawn broke free.

"Tired?" John questioned softly.

Sherlock nodded. The pair dressed down to just their trousers, before laying down together side by side, with Hamish on Sherlock's right side.

Sherlock leaned over and gently kissed John's lips, before travelling downwards towards John's neck, leaving soft love marks, moving down slowly towards his chest…

John raised Sherlock's chin with one finger.

"Not here, my love" he whispered, gesturing to Hamish's sleeping form.

Sherlock nodded in remembrance, but his want to touch John was powerful.

"Can I please just kiss your hand until I fall asleep?" Sherlock questioned.

John nodded in agreement. Sherlock took John's hand and pressed delicate kisses to it, trailing butterfly kisses down the beautiful skin and passionately kissing the knuckles. At points his kisses became desperate, but for the most part Sherlock remained content with a relaxed moment.

Eventually, after an hour or so worth of soft worship, Sherlock fell asleep; still softly kissing John's hand.

John giggled softly "you baffle me sometimes, my darling" he whispered. He gently removed his hand from Sherlock's clutches and fell asleep alongside him, gently burying his hand in Sherlock's silken tresses.


	25. Chapter 25

The next morning, Hamish woke up long before his dad's did. They looked so beautiful, so perfect together, that Hamish's heart soared. Even at three years old, he recognised True Love, and he knew his parents were a fine example.

It was so strange. Two men, so different in their personalities, and yet so compelled by their adoration, so simply enamored by each other. Hamish knew that one day he would probably understand exactly what foreign mysteries compelled his parents in their attraction, but for now he was simply happy to remain as an onlooker to their compassion.

He sat up in bed, and his attention turned to his Father, John. Hamish already adored him. He made his Papa happy, and he clearly loved them both. He had been searching for three years to try and bring them together again, and Hamish was in awe of his dedication and love. He had always aspired to be like his Papa, but now an equal side of him inspired him to be like his Father as well.

After all the stories his Papa had told him about his Father, Hamish could see what his Papa finally meant. His Father was everything he had imagined, altogether courageous, intelligent and loving.

The other thing Hamish loved about his Father was his instant interaction. He didn't try to place him simply as Sherlock's son; he instead treated him exactly as his own equal son, jumping straight into a relationship. Hamish adored him for it, because-after so many years of wondering what his other parent was like-Hamish finally had the chance to experience it firsthand, rather than face a nervous, terrified man who was afraid of a sudden relationship.

Speaking of which, his Father stirred and opened his eyes, propping himself up on one arm and smiling at Hamish.

"Hello darling" he smiled gently "sleep well?"

Hamish nodded eagerly, smiling up at John.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" John questioned "it doesn't seem like your Papa is going to wake up any time soon."

Hamish grinned and jumped out of bed. John followed him quickly and they dressed together. John scribbled a note for Sherlock, before wandering out with Hamish.

They wandered out into the streets. There was a bitter frost in the air, and Hamish huddled closer to John. It was still early enough to be dark outside, and a light mist outlined the streets.

The two sat down on a bench and sat side by side, their breath curling up into the sky.

"You know" John smiled "we're going to London today"

Hamish turned and grinned "we are?"

John nodded "we certainly are. You, me and your Papa; it's where we're going to live from now on."

Hamish smiled. John had told him many stories of London during their five long days of walking. About the broad avenues and buildings that touched the sky. Of Big Ben and the river Thames. Of Nelson's statue, Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square… Hamish was practically drooling with excitement.

He thought of his Papa's brother, the one who his Papa had told him so much about. The one who had taken away his Papa's freedom locked him away, threatened him and almost killed the only man he loved… _He_ lived in London, didn't he?

Hamish clung to John "Father, we can't go back! What about Mycroft?"

John stiffened at the mention of the name, but remained calm "so, your Papa has told you about him, has he?"

Hamish nodded sadly. John stroked Hamish's hair and held him close.

"You mustn't be afraid of him" John whispered "I would never stand by and let him bring harm to your or your Papa."

Hamish blinked up at John "but… I'm still scared of him…" Hamish blushed "I know it's silly…"

"It's never silly to be afraid" John whispered "there are many times when I'm scared, and I'll tell you a secret…" he leaned over and whispered in Hamish's ear "the most courageous of people are the ones who are the most terrified."

Hamish was confused "how can the most frightened be the bravest?"

"Because, they are the ones-even through their fear-who battle on and confront their fears" John smiled "they realise that their fear is a figment of their imagination. It goes from being a terrifying monster, to something that is so simple, that you feel ridiculous to think you were ever scared of it in the first place."

Hamish grinned "so… Fear is something that only exists if we believe in it?"

John nodded "people can overcome anything frightening, as long as they are capable of confronting their own imagination."

Hamish listened carefully as his Father attempted to come up with a clearer example of his explanation.

"Fear is something we all experience at some point in our lives" John continued "what you have to realize is that there are so few things in this world that are worth being scared of. Fear is simply something we'll have to confront at the best of times, no matter how frightened we are. It's terrifying, but if you can surpass fear, you've practically won any battle you're willing to create."

Hamish nodded, but John could still see the nervousness in his eyes. He could understand the child's emotions rather well, after all he had spent three years in constant, enclosed fright. He gently took the child's hands, and spoke softly to him, trying a new tactic.

"You know Hamish, when I was in the army, I remember being terrified of the enemy. So I used to do something rather ridiculous. Do you want to know what I did?

Hamish nodded eagerly.

"I imagined that I was television show" John blushed "I pretend that I was acting whenever I raced through the bullets, and that at any moment the director would yell 'cut!' and it would all be over" John shrugged "it actually worked rather well!"

"Papa said that you got shot" Hamish murmured softly.

John nodded "again, that was a terrifying moment" John fiddled with his jumper "I was swearing, stumbling, I couldn't think straight. But I had a friend there to help me instantly, he spoke to me the whole time he was stabilising me, telling me to relax, telling me not to panic…"

John couldn't help but smile "the whole time, he spoke to me. He pulled me out of the enemy's path, and he told me about everything. He was doing it to distract me, and I was grateful, because he was terrified as well. Talking about things was his way of becoming brave."

"What did he talk to you about?" Hamish asked, wide eyed.

"Everything" John replied "films, radio, music, television, books, clothes, anything that would distract me from the pain and the bullets… of course I couldn't answer the poor man, and I was panicking rather soundly." John sniffed "there's never a time more terrifying than the time your whole life flashes before your eyes…"

Hamish grasped John's hand.

"I think you're the bravest man in the world" he whispered softly.

John grinned down at him, squeezing his hand "and I think you are the bravest boy in the world" he kissed Hamish's forehead "shall we go and see if your Papa's awake?"

Hamish nodded eagerly and jumped up, pulling John along with him back to the hotel.

When the reached the doorway of the hotel, Hamish wrapped his arms around John.

"I love you!" he whispered excitedly, before grinning and rushing inside.

John stood dumbstruck in the doorway, insisting to the concerned woman who passed by that he just had something in his eye (make that both eyes). As he wiped his he grinned, before racing inside after Hamish, his face lit up brighter than any star in the sky.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock wakened to the sinking of the bed on one side. Opening his eyes, he saw Hamish, grinning at him.

"Hello love" he whispered "sleep well?"

Hamish nodded eagerly. Sherlock sat up and grasped his son's hand, who in turn

"Father says that we're going to London!" he grinned.

Sherlock smiled "and if I'm not mistaken, we'll be going soon?"

"That's right" he heard another voice enter the room.

Turning, Sherlock smiled as his glorious husband entered the room, seemingly shining brighter than the sun which beamed through the window.

Sherlock smiled "do you know what time your friend is getting here?"

John sat down on the bed "he should be here in an hour; you might want to get dressed."

Sherlock nodded, before leaning over and capturing John's lips in a kiss.

John moaned softly and smiled against Sherlock's lips. The pair only broke apart when they heard a little giggle and a small 'eww.'

The pair looked over to see Hamish-his hands over his eyes and giggling-as he stuck out his tongue in mock disgust.

Sherlock rolled his eyes laughingly at his son and gave John another peck.

"Hamish, do you want to meet us downstairs for breakfast?" Sherlock asked softly "I have to talk to your Father."

Hamish nodded, before racing off out of the room.

Sherlock turned to John and his expression became more serious.

"John" he asked gently "going back to London… it's going to be quite an adjustment for us all. I'm just… concerned that Hamish might find it all overwhelming."

John grasped his husband's hand "he was questioning me about Mycroft, he seemed quite scared" John breathed out "should we be concerned about him?"

"Mycroft is not a man who I ever wish to have a relation, bond or conventional mateship with" Sherlock shuddered "he is past news now, and if our paths ever cross again, I will make it _extremely_ clear **exactly **what I think of him."

John stroked his husband's short tresses, letting the silken locks fall between his fingers.

"You don't think he would try to hurt Hamish do you?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head, before embracing his husband and whispering into his ear.

"As long as I live, for as long as I'm around, I will protect our son" he whispered "I will never let Mycroft harm him, not while I'm around; and the same goes for you."

John smiled into his husband's shoulder.

"I believe you love" he replied softly "I'll always believe in you."

* * *

An hour later, the family were stood outside, waiting eagerly for Lestrade to arrive. John could just about sob with relief when he saw Lestrade's car roll down the street.

The car stopped in front of him and Lestrade jumped out. John raced forward, and found himself pulled into a tight embrace.

"John…" he heard Lestrade whisper, his voice wet "fucking hell mate… it's been too long."

John wiped at his own eyes "I don't have any words Lestrade except… god just, thank you. Thank you for everything" John sniffed.

Both men giggled a little as they straightened themselves out, before Lestrade glanced behind John.

"Are you going to introduce me mate?" he smiled.

John nodded, and beckoned for Sherlock to come forward.

"Lestrade, this is my husband Sherlock" John smiled "Sherlock, this is Greg Lestrade; he's a great friend of mine."

Lestrade grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes however, gave Lestrade a complete once over.

"You're a Detective Inspector" Sherlock's eyes lit up.

Lestrade blinked "Yes! Did you tell him John?"

"Your third from top button told me that" Sherlock smiled.

Lestrade looked taken aback "wow, really? How did you know that?"

"Sherlock can deduce things" John smiled proudly "he knew everything about me at a single glance; remember Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded "it's really rather easy" he noted "a simple rule is, whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains; however impossible, must be the truth. Deduction is simple once you can observe things rather than merely seeing them."

Lestrade grinned "that's amazing! You know, would make a fantastic detective."

Sherlock's grin became even wider, and John noticed a light blush spreading across his cheeks.

"And who's this little guy here?" Lestrade asked, glancing around Sherlock.

Hamish was standing behind Sherlock, looking slightly bashful, but more so excited.

"This is my son Hamish" John explained with a grin.

Lestrade grinned and stuck out his hand "pleasure to meet you Hamish."

Hamish hesitated only for a moment, before smiling and shaking Lestrade's hand enthusiastically.

"Are you ready to go home?" Lestrade asked quietly.

Hamish nodded eagerly. John's whole face lit up in a marvellous grin and if Sherlock could get any more excited, he might have become brighter than the sun.

"Jump in" Lestrade grinned "we've got a long drive ahead of us, but we'll hopefully be back in London before tonight."

John jumped into the front, whilst Sherlock and Hamish jumped in the back.

* * *

After an entire days' worth of driving, the night fell and the towns became larger. As the countryside began to disappear, Sherlock grew more and more excited.

He was like a child, his eyes shining as he stared out of the window. Hamish had fallen asleep against his shoulder and was breathing gently.

"John" Sherlock whispered "how much longer my love?"

John grinned "not much longer now darling" he whispered back.

Sherlock couldn't sit still. He twisted around in his seat, admiring the whole world as it whizzed past his window. He watched the lights, the endless buildings and the stars whenever he caught a glimpse of them. He was in complete and utter awe. After so many years of rejection and refusal to experience these sights, he was finally permitted to. And he couldn't be happier.

After a while, Lestrade announced for the whole car.

"Alright, London's coming up now!"

Lestrade and John were practically shoved out of the way by Sherlock as he edged to get a closer look. Hamish was awakened by the sudden movement and-as soon as he got his bearings-was also in awe.

In a sudden burst, London's lights came into view. An eruption of colour emerged from the darkness, and the entirety of Sherlock's world came into light.

He was home. After so many years of being separated from the world, he had finally come home.

John turned around to gauge his reaction, only to find his husband weeping in the back seat.

"Sherlock!" he gasped "my love, what's wrong?"

Sherlock sniffed and wiped his eyes, giving John a reassuring look.

"I'm home John!" he grinned through his tears "after all these years…"

John smiled in relief and leaned into the backseat to kiss his beautiful husband, who looked as though he'd just been told he's won the lottery, been transferred to eternal paradise and given a fluffy kitten as a pet.

Hamish was bouncing in his seat, looking all around at the spinning universe of colour.

"It's fantastic!" he grinned "it's brilliant!"

John leaned over and gave him a loving kiss on the cheek, before turning back to Lestrade.

"Can you take me back to my bedsit mate?" he asked.

Lestrade, who was grinning like an idiot at the family's happiness, nodded proudly, before manoeuvring his way through the streets.

After another while of driving, they arrived outside John's army pension flat. The family jumped out-Sherlock looking as though he was about to explode with happiness-whilst John leaned in through the driver's side window.

"Thank you Lestrade" he smiled warmly "for everything. You've brought my family home."

"You've brought them home John" Lestrade grinned "I merely assisted."

And after another round of goodbyes and a promise of a get together soon, Lestrade sped off.

John grasped Sherlock's hand and gave him a passionate kiss.

"Are you ready?" he asked. The question seemed vague, but it held a thousand questions and only one answer.

"Yes" Sherlock whispered into John's ear. His eyes were still shining with a remanent of tears.

John clutched Sherlock's hand, who in turn held Hamish close to him. John took in the bright lights that surrounded him, before turning back to his lover.

"Welcome home Sherlock Holmes."

**Note: Hello everyone! Well, the story is still not over, there will be more to come, but for now, I hope you are still enjoying it! Now, I recommend you return to chapter 20, as I have updated it slightly and changed it, so that a certain character can be reinstated to the story. Don't know what I mean? Check it out, and let's go on with the show! :D**


	27. Chapter 27

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, he was on strange sheets. He turned to see Hamish lying next to him, breathing gently.

Sherlock sat up carefully and noticed John lying on a sofa near the window. Sherlock smiled and headed over to him, before gently taking his hand and kissing his lips sweetly.

"John" he whispered "John, wake up!"

John's eyes fluttered open and sleepily took in the expression of his husband, his eyes shining brightly and his face contorted into a glorious smile.

John sat up and tilted his husband's head up so that they were looking into each other's eyes.

"Yes my beauty?" John asked quietly.

"John, tell me this is real" Sherlock whispered "tell me this isn't imaginary…"

John kissed Sherlock again, this time reassuringly.

"This is real" he sighed softly against Sherlock's lips "this is where your life begins again…"

* * *

To all accounts, John had been a treasure at reorganising their lives. He has provided both Sherlock and Hamish with everything they could need.

Hamish was in blissful rapture. After so many years of having nothing but a barren wasteland as his home, he was suddenly offered everything he could want.

And John was a perfect father. It astounded Sherlock how natural John was, how he could be equally strong with people and so gentle and caring around their son.

If possible, Sherlock was even happier. He had re-entered society and he was in bliss. John had treated him like a prince, a fate Sherlock was sure he didn't deserve, but he was gifted with anyway.

All things granted, he couldn't always say things were easy. He only really showed his loving side around John and Hamish. With other people he could be difficult, working hard at sussing them out and deducing things about them. The one exception to this rule was Lestrade, and Sherlock liked him because he was a Detective Inspector and because he treated Sherlock as though he was worth something, not just a naïve person who had been locked in a tower his whole life.

Barely a week had gone by, and already Sherlock was growing used to living in society. He and John had discussed the possibility of a larger flat, and they were already focusing on finding a school for Hamish in the next few years.

But there was still one thing that Sherlock knew he needed to do.

* * *

It was late. John had taken Hamish out for a while to show him Big Ben, a place he had been itching to see for a while. Sherlock was standing by the window, wrapped in his long, black coat, violin in hand.

A dark mist had already fallen over London, and Sherlock raised his bow slowly to his violin, before dragging out a few slow notes.

There was something on his mind. Something that had been on his mind for years, his envision of leaving his tower and returning back to London left a nagging feeling in his mind.

His parents.

He had never known what Mycroft had told them. For some reason, he felt as though they must have upheld some kind of hope that he was alive. The Holmes'-he knew-were not people for giving up. They kept a certain kind of hope with them.

Of course they were cold. Of course there were times when they could be unfeeling. But they were closer than people thought.

They had to be. You can't work in the most prestigious job in the world and not expect to have your less than loyal employees trying to shatter you at every moment. The Holmes family had always stuck together through anything that the world threw at him.

And if they could hold hope with their loyalty, surely there was a chance that they upheld the hope that Sherlock was alive?

Sherlock's mind flashed back to his first lonely days in his tower. He remembered how terrified he had been, how saddened and alone he had felt. His mind had kept flashing to his parents, and a terrific longing overtook him. He had hated Mycroft for wrenching him away from them, and for allowing himself to be tricked into being held captive.

Sherlock had spent almost eighteen years apart from his parents. But times had now changed. He was no longer the same lonely child he had been all those years ago. Nor was he the frightened young man who had been cast out into the empty mist and told to survive.

He was determined and he was ready for the next step in his reissuing into society.

* * *

When John arrived home that night, Sherlock waited patiently until he had sorted out Hamish and bade him goodnight, before standing by the window with his husband and wrapping a gentle arm around his waist. The air was getting colder and the windows were frosting up.

"It's probably going to snow" John whispered, blinking up at a streetlamp outside.

"Mmm" Sherlock agreed softly.

John turned to his husband, his eyes slightly concerned.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then took John's hands, preparing to ask John the question which had been floating around his mind.

"John…" Sherlock stuttered "I want to see my parents again. I mean, I know it's a huge ask, but I haven't seen them for so long…"

For an awful moment, he thought John would be angry. What if John felt he was being ungrateful by demanding so much more, when for so long John had provided him with everything he could want? What if he thought that he wasn't good enough for Sherlock- that he was demanding too much…?

Sherlock's fears melted away as John leaned up and planted a loving kiss on his lips, silencing him gently.

"Oh Sherlock" John soothed "that's a wonderful idea!"

"It is?"

"Of course" John smiled "Sherlock, think of what a surprise it'll be for them!"

"Probably on par with having a corpse drag itself out of the ground and flop down at their feet" Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

John stroked his cheek "I was rather thinking it would be a nicer surprise" John smiled "well, that's rather an understatement."

Sherlock nodded "so, when should we go?"

John shrugged "what about tomorrow?" he questioned softly.

Sherlock's heart clenched with nerves, but he nodded determinedly.

"Tomorrow" Sherlock agreed nervously.

* * *

Sherlock felt sick.

He thought as though he was going to throw up, faint and scream. He was terrified…

What could happen? What would go down? Would his parents remember him?

Rain was pouring down outside. It fell in a steady beat against the windowsill, the sky dark and gloomy. There was going to be a thunderstorm later, Sherlock could tell.

He was standing in front of his mirror. He was dressed in a dress suit in an attempt to look smarter. For half an hour he had been constantly combing and re-combing his hair, remembering his parent's love for his curls as a child.

He heard John stand next to him. He was also dressed to the nines, his hair already perfectly combed and his suit well pressed.

"I've got Hamish ready" he spoke quietly.

"Hmm" Sherlock replied, concentrating very hard on not losing his breakfast.

John stroked Sherlock's cheek, before gently plucking the comb from his grasp and perfecting his curls in almost an instant.

"You'll be wonderful" John whispered "they'll remember you my darling, I just know they will…"

Sherlock tried to nod, tried to reassure himself, tried to reassure John…

John noticed the fear in his love's eyes and held him closely "you'll be alright. I'll be right beside you the whole time my love, I promise..."

Sherlock nodded, and uttered the two words (one which was really an abbreviation) which gave the pair a green light.

"I'm ready."

* * *

It isn't fair to bother the reader with the details of how they found Sherlock's childhood home. Frankly, you don't want to hear about that, it's not interesting. Nor is it of any interest as to how they got past the gates.

But now they were inside the manor's grounds.

Now they were walking up the path to the door.

Now they were being led inside. Sherlock's hands began to shake slightly.

Everything was exactly the same as Sherlock remembered it all those many years ago. Nothing had changed. He relaxed slightly.

They were led to the doors of a much larger room, huge double doors. Sherlock knew that this was his parent's meeting room and that it was huge, long and imposing. He began to shake again.

The doors were opened, and they went inside. Sherlock had to fight with all of his willpower not to faint.

In the massive room (really, it was more of a hall, it even had a lit chandelier blazing overhead) a couple stood at the head of the room behind a desk. They were slightly older than Sherlock remembered, but the same willpower and fearsome determination still existed behind their eyes.

They looked down at the family, not in an unkind way. They looked down at Sherlock and his family as though they had a sort of equal respect for them.

Finally, Sherlock's father (in the same gruff, yet warm voice that Sherlock remembered) spoke.

"How may we be of assistance gentlemen?"

Sherlock just about threw up from nerves. But he swallowed hard and spoke only a few simple words.

"I owe you a thousand apologies."

For exactly five minutes and 23 seconds, there was silence in the hall. Even Hamish remained still and quiet, as though he sensed the urgency of the situation.

Then Mrs Holmes moved. She wandered over to Sherlock slowly, almost nervously. She was soon standing directly in front of him.

In a slow, unknowing notion, she ran a gentle hand down his cheek, staring deeply into his eyes.

"Sherlock…" she whispered.

Sherlock could do little more than just nod and whisper "I'm home…"

And then she was sobbing. Weeping into his shoulder. Telling him it had been far too long, how all the years she had wasted without the light of her younger child…

As soon as she had given the conformation of the fact, Sherlock's father came over as well. Not quite weeping, but almost. He too told his son that it had been too long. Told him about all of the pain, the years of emptiness he had felt without his lost child.

Throughout this whole time, John and Hamish stayed on the sideline. Hamish was practically bouncing up and down with excitement. John didn't speak, but had a beautiful grin across his face at the conformation that his husband's history was finally complete.

After a long time's worth of excitement and tears and reunions and gasps, of love and disbelief and conformation and introductions, of remembrance and welcoming and acceptance and pure joy, Sherlock's life finally felt as though it had completely clicked.

Mrs Holmes tightened her grip on his son, as though she was terrified that he would disappear at any moment. Mr Holmes wiped the not quite fallen tears from the corner of his eyes, before asking the question that both parent's had been wondering for years.

"Where have you been son?"

And Sherlock's story came tumbling from his lips. From Mycroft kidnapping him, to his hair growing to extraordinary lengths, to being locked away in his tower prison. He told about how he had been hidden for fifteen years by Mycroft, who had gained access to the tower by climbing his long tresses, before John came along. There was so much to tell about John, their relationship, their love, their friendship (he-much to John's relief-left out the information about their sexual relations).

He told them about Mycroft's sexual assault, of their escape plan, of John's proposal and their short, yet beautiful wedding ceremony in Sherlock's chamber.

He told them about his discovered pregnancy, of Mycroft's brutal assault and his tresses being cut short. He told them about being tossed into the wilderness, giving birth alone, living in terror for three years (upon Mrs Holmes request, John threw in his bit about being blinded, searching for his lover for three long, long years…)

Sherlock told them about their reunion. About John's regained eyesight, about being introduced to his son, about finding civilisation and being taken back to London by Lestrade.

Sherlock's past tumbled out of his mouth for over an hour, and by the end of it, both of Sherlock's parent's mouths had dropped open in utter disbelief.

For a while, there were no words from either party. Then Mr Holmes spoke.

"Mycroft… all these years… he knew?"

Sherlock nodded. Mrs Holmes clutched at her heart.

"He told us you were gone… oh darling! How could we have been so foolish as to believe him?!"

"I'm home now" Sherlock replied, gripping his mother tightly "I'm never leaving you or father again…" he gently kissed her cheek, displaying another surprising amount of affection "…I promise."

During these more emotional moments, the happy reunion was suddenly broken by the cracking of a china plate, and an earth shattering scream.

The entire party turned to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, a look of pure terror and furious horror spread across his face.


	28. Chapter 28

Mycroft's face was a contorted one of complete fear and shock. He finally managed to choke out the words "y…you…"

Sherlock felt faint, but he nodded determinedly.

"Yes Mycroft, it's me. I'm back" he replied defiantly.

Mycroft stepped over the smashed cake plate in horror and edged slightly forward, the way a hunter might if he had shot a tiger and was no quite convinced it was dead.

"No" Mycroft replied in horror "you're not meant to be here…" he turned to John "and neither are you! _You're meant to be_ **dead!"**

Sherlock saw Hamish jump and cling to John. John had a mixture of fury, fear and complete hatred on his face as he stared at the horrified figure of Mycroft.

So did-Sherlock noticed-his parents.

Sherlock's father stepped forward "don't you **dare **even _attempt _to question my son Mycroft Holmes!" he yelled, making the whole room (including Mycroft) jump "after all you've done, you don't have a right to stand here! You are nothing but evil! You are a wolf in sheep's clothing! You are a _**monster**_!"

Mycroft shook furiously with a mixture of terror and hatred, but continued to argue.

"Father, believe me. I never intended any harm…"

Mr Holmes loomed over his eldest son, shutting him up quickly.

"When your brother entered this room," he hissed "he told us he owed us a thousand apologies. But the only person who owes any apologies here is you!" he shook hard as he continued "no apology would suffice anyway. You took my youngest child away from me Mycroft, you deprived him of his freedom, you assaulted him and his husband…"

Mycroft stepped forward, his eyes blazing. Not at his father, but at the Watson-Holmes'.

"You never showed me the same love you spared for Sherlock" he hissed "you never treated me the way you treated him! You always made him out to be a beauty, a treasure, a glorious prize, but I always played second fiddle!" Mycroft's eyes burned "I had to lock him away so that I could finally get the respect I deserved!"

Mr Holmes' eyes blazed as well, boring holes in what little remained of Mycroft's heart.

"Your mother and I always loved you" he went on "we loved you just as much as we did Sherlock. If there's one thing that my family can uphold, it's that favourites are never played out like card deals. I loved you both equally, but you were always too _vain _to see that!"

Mycroft glared furiously at Sherlock. He stepped past his father and edged closer to Sherlock.

John grasped Sherlock's hand tightly, shooting him a look that said 'be careful my love…'

Mycroft stood directly in front of Sherlock, his eyes blazing, his breathing deep and furious.

"You were always a brat" he hissed "nothing but a disturbed little brat! You were nothing without that gorgeous hair of yours…" he grabbed Sherlock's now short tresses and pulled hard, causing Sherlock to wince and gasp in pain.

But John was quick. In an instant he had jumped in and punched Mycroft as hard as he could in the face.

Mycroft staggered back and Mrs Holmes shrieked. John held Sherlock's hand and replied to Mycroft.

"Leave. My. Husband. **ALONE**" he spat furiously, eyeing up Mycroft.

Mycroft's eyes became a hideous and contorted monstrous snarl, which was massively emphasised by the scarlet blood trickling from his nose. He spat back at John.

"And _you_. You just come slithering along, like some kind of _serpent _into his tower" he hissed "you're the cause of all this! If it wasn't for you, I would have kept him hidden for the rest of his life! Then I would get what I always wanted! Then I would be the better, the smarter, the greater! If it wasn't for you and your _**bastard **_child…"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Sherlock raced forward and slammed him against the wall.

"_Never-insult-my-family-in-front-of-__**me**_" he spat at Mycroft, holding him tightly against the wall "you ignorant, hideous, lying, two faced, _**prat…**_"

And then the two were off. Years of pent up hatred rushed out and grabbed at each-other's throats. The two full on _attacked _each other, screaming ugly insults and throwing insane, yet incredibly strong and painful punches.

This was no ordinary fight. It was made up of a passionate hate and years of intensity to build upon it. They scratched, they clawed, they punched and they kicked, their insults intensifying and all forms of dignity forgotten.

Mr and Mrs Holmes screamed at them to stop, begging them to cease. Hamish could do nothing but watch in horror, shaking like a leaf.

Sherlock felt Mycroft punch him once, twice, _three times in the bloody face. _He could feel blood trickling down his throat, and he desperately fought to defend himself.

Suddenly, he felt Mycroft wrenched off of him. He saw John, furiously attacking Mycroft with all the strength of his army years, beating the man to a bloody pulp.

But Mycroft fought back. He was no longer a dignified, suit wearing aristocrat. He was brutal. He was insane. And Sherlock knew he was going to kill John if Sherlock didn't step in and help.

So help he did. He grabbed Mycroft and flung him across the room, so that he landed in the remnants of his shattered cake plate.

John rushed over and gently caressed Sherlock's cheek.

"Are you alright?" he asked desperately "are you alright my love?!"

Sherlock nodded, wiping the blood from his nose with an offered handkerchief.

"I'm fine" he nodded "I'm alright…"

Nobody's relief lasted long. Mycroft had recovered from his attack and reached out to grab a cake knife, which had clattered onto the ground with the shattered plate.

Sherlock and John prepared to dodge his attack, reckoning that he was going to charge at them with the knife, but Mycroft had another idea. As Sherlock and John went to move, Mycroft flung the knife and it slashed through the chandelier's supports.

Hamish shrieked as the chandelier collapsed and flashed in a jewel lit image towards the floor, connecting with the ground and bursting into flames. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, whose face was becoming twisted and evil in the flickering fire.

This was it. Mycroft had gone insane. And Sherlock was in his line of sight for those who were going six feet under.

But John was quick on his feet. As the flames burst around him, he pushed Sherlock away from the flames and signalled towards the doors.

"Run Sherlock!" he gasped as smoke curled around him "run my love!"

Sherlock took the hint. He jumped up and burst through the doors, leaving the burning room behind him.

Mycroft-unfortunately-also took the hint and raced after Sherlock. Despite the amount of cake he had eaten over the last few years, when he needed to run, he could run.

The remaining group in the room raced out, coughing and hacking as servants swarmed in to witness and take care of the fire.

John panicked as he saw Mycroft disappear behind the corner of corridor and rush after Sherlock. He didn't hesitate for an instant. He quickly entrusted the Holmes' with Hamish, before rushing off after his husband.

He had no doubt that Mycroft would kill Sherlock if he caught up to him. And John wasn't going to lose his husband again.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock ran. He raced for his life. He could hear Mycroft's footsteps clattering after him; could almost feel his breath burning against his back.

Sherlock desperately searched his mind, trying to come up with the layout of the house. He skidded down hallways, raced through corridors and ran through varying rooms, all while lightning illuminated outside around him in terrifying blasts.

Sherlock suddenly skidded and came to the edge of a great staircase. He raced up, practically flying up six at a time, and then pushed through another door, slamming it and locking it behind him.

He was in a parlour. Lightning flashed outside as a Sherlock's predicted storm swirled around the manor.

Sherlock gasped as he heard Mycroft smashing his body against the door, screaming at Sherlock to let him in. Sherlock backed away from the door in fright, shivering in fear as he heard the brutal thumps from the other side. He knows that one quick slice of the blade from Mycroft will not be considered hardship…

But Sherlock was trapped. There was no adjoining door which presented an option of freedom. He was stuck.

In desperation, his line of sight jumped over to a set of double doors which led out onto a balcony. They were his last hope.

He raced over, threw them open and emerged out onto the balcony. At the same moment, Mycroft managed to smash the lock on the door.

Despite the rain which swirled around him, Sherlock ran over to the wall. Without a moment's hesitation, he managed to place his foot between the bricks and began to climb.

Thunder rumbled around him. Lightning flashed and rain poured down. Sherlock almost lost his grip several times as the bricks became tepid and soaking wet, crumbling as he tried to grasp them.

Stupidly, he looked down and not only saw the rock hard ground below-which would surely break every bone in his body if he fell-but Mycroft was coming after him, knife clenched between his teeth as he pulled himself up, his face contorted so he looked more demon than human.

Sherlock desperately pulled himself up faster, his fingers scrabbling for leverage on the crumbling wall. He managed to somehow pull himself up onto the roof and raced as far away from Mycroft as he could.

Mycroft pulled himself up over the roof and stood up. He was soaking wet, his eyes were blazing and he held the knife menacingly in front of him. Sherlock edged further and further away, gasping as he felt his heels knock against the side of the roof. One more movement and he would fall to his death.

Sherlock knew he was powerless against Mycroft, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to perish without a fight. He only wished that Mycroft would somehow spare John and Hamish from the same horrible fate.

Mycroft advanced towards him as another blast of lightning illuminated the skyline, contorting his face evilly and making him look even more terrifying.

"This is it Sherlock" he hissed against the thrashing winds "time to do what I should have done all those years ago…"

Sherlock got ready to fight, hoping that Mycroft would be quick when the blow finally came.

But then Mycroft was thrown away from him. Sherlock looked over and saw John, desperately attacking Mycroft, almost howling with fury at him to '_**keep your filthy hands away from my husband!'**_

Mycroft of course, fought back, and Sherlock screamed in horror as Mycroft tried to slash John's eyes, neck, wrists or stomach with the knife. But John was too quick, dodging him every time and flinging himself back into the fight.

The two men raced at each other, screaming, shouting, cursing and yelling. There was a deadly feeling in the air, Sherlock knew both men were after a prize. One was for his life, the other was for his untimely end.

But John wasn't giving up on Sherlock's behalf. His screams got stronger as he and Mycroft battled for Sherlock on the rooftops. Then thunder boomed, lightning flashed, and the pair were spinning madly on the wet rooftop, their feet desperate for leverage.

Sherlock gave a gasp as he saw the pair edging closer towards the edge of the roof. Sherlock raced forward, shouting out to John, desperately trying to warn him...

But it was too late. Mycroft gave a beastial howl and wrenched John off of the roof.

But John wasn't giving up. As he felt himseld falling, John angled his body so that he took Mycroft with him as he tumbled off.

Sherlock shrieked and raced forward, reaching for John as he fell over the edge, grabbing his wrist and holding him up. In the end the three looked like a tangled rope. Mycroft had his arms wrapped around John's legs, and Sherlock was clutching John's wrist as tightly as he could.

"John!" Sherlock gasped as the rain thundered down harder "John, hold onto me!"

John began to reply, but screamed mid-reply as Mycroft retained his reflexes and sank the knife into his thigh.

"**STOP MYCROFT!"** Sherlock screamed desperately **"STOP!"**

But Mycroft payed no attention. He was hell bent on revenge, and he had finally gotten both men into a situation where he could carry it out.

"Sherlock!" John screamed through his tears of pain "Sherlock, you have to let go!"

"No John!" Sherlock yelled back "I'm not going to lose you again!" he could feel tears mixing with the rain in his own eyes.

Another flash of lightning erupted as Mycroft attempted to raise the knife again to finish the job, John's blood trickling down his arms.

"Sherlock…" John gasped as the pain began to become overwhelming "Sherlock my love, you have to let go! We have to end this now!"

Sherlock felt his heart clench. He stared deeply into John's eyes, which were wide with fear and filled with tears, but still determined.

"Sherlock, you have to let me down" John gasped, half in pain, half in sudden fright as Mycroft struggled and half in fear "you have to let me fall!"

But Sherlock couldn't. John was not his once glorious tresses, which he could simply let tumble to the ground. John was his husband, and Sherlock couldn't let him die.

Mycroft had finally gotten a decent grip on the knife with one hand and was preparing to slice. John stared deeply back into Sherlock's eyes. The expression of fear was gone, and in its place was an expression of kindness, warmth and love.

"Sherlock…" John gasped through the rain.

And then he struggled, breaking free of Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock screamed a desperate _**'NO!'**_ as both John and Mycroft fell away from him, plummeting at an alarming rate before hitting the concrete pavers below.


	30. Chapter 30

"No!" Sherlock screamed "no, no, NO!"

His screams turned to sobs as he gazed at the body of his husband, lying in a heap against Mycroft.

Sherlock's heart was frozen. His limbs felt weak, unusable and rotten. He felt himself shake whilst tears rushed to his eyes.

Sherlock's breathing hitched as sobs wracked his body, making him fall to his knees on the rooftop. His mind wasn't working, he couldn't think straight. All he could see was John's body, unmoving on the cold, hard slabs. All he wanted to do was throw himself off after his husband, but only his desperate sobbing stopped him from performing the deed. He couldn't even stand up straight.

He felt himself hyperventilating as the wind whipped his hair, his sobbing becoming desperate. He was shaking like a leaf as he stared at the two bodies on the pavers, which every few minutes were being illuminated by lightning.

Eventually, he came down. He couldn't stay up there forever, and he didn't have the current stamina to commit suicide. He clambered back down the wall, shaking loosely as he focused on the crumpled body of the man he loved.

As he emerged from the house, he noticed his parents, standing alongside Hamish in the pouring rain. He also saw several servants standing around, one of which was ordering the others to phone for an ambulance, making arrangements for the bodies to be removed from the scene.

Sherlock pushed past them all, his line of sight shaking and blurred. He noticed Hamish, who was staring at his Father's body. His young eyes were red and his mouth was set in a grim line, as though he was desperately trying not to sob.

Sherlock reached John's body, sprawled out across Mycroft. He knelt astride his husband's body and-paying no attention to anyone around him-cradled him softly in his arms, his tears mixing with the rain which fell onto John's face.

Through his tears, he glanced down at Mycroft. He was lying against the pavers, his head smashed, eyes half open and the knife sticking out of his chest, accidently falling there after the forced impact of the fall. The once majestic and frightening man now was simply a ghost of the face which had both terrified and frustrated Sherlock for years.

Needless to say, he was gone.

Sherlock looked down at his husband again. His eyes were closed; he was incredibly bruised and battered, a bloody gash across one side of his face, and didn't seem to be breathing.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself. He wept, clutching his husband's seemingly lifeless body against his chest. Before he could stop himself, he bowed his head and gently kissed John's lips.

"Oh John..." Sherlock cried against his husband's chest "oh John, my John, my John..."

He couldn't do anymore. He felt light headed and his breathing was becoming muddled. He couldn't think, he couldn't see and he couldn't feel anything but anger, sadness and horror.

"Please John…" he whispered loosely against his husbands lips "don't be… dead. Just for me John…"

He was so busy weeping for his loss that he didn't feel John's body slip from his grasp. But instead of collapsing back against the pavers, John's body stayed where it was, _clinging to Sherlock's shirt._

Sherlock looked down at his husband, and saw John's eyes open blurrily, before he peered up at Sherlock through slitted eyelids.

"I've been thrown from a tower after being blinded" he heard John choke out in the softest whisper he'd heard in his life "surely I can survive when I can see?"

Sherlock gasped. He gaped. He gawped and he stared. He gave a cry of delight and began showering every inch of John he could find with kisses.

"You're alive!" Sherlock shrieked "oh John, you're alive!"

John felt the wind taken out of him as Sherlock embraced him, almost crushing his lungs in his excitement. But John didn't care in the slightest. He found himself clinging back to Sherlock, his own tears merging with his husband's.

"I've got too much to do with my life Sherlock" John whispered, a small smile spread across his features "I'm not going anywhere for a long time…"

That was all the conformation Sherlock needed

Hamish-upon hearing the words 'you're alive!'-came bounding over to his Father and threw his arms around him. It must have been painful, but John's face remained ecstatic as he pulled Hamish close to him.

John's eyes cast down towards the deceased body of Mycroft.

"Sherlock…" he whispered "I don't know what to say…" he bit his lip "I am sorry…"

Sherlock stared down at the lifeless body of his brother, and mentally retained himself from any retort. He didn't know how to react. The idea of this man-this terrifying, sophisticated, abnormally insane-man, being dragged away from this world forever... Sherlock couldn't understand it. He didn't have the strength to explain his reaction.

John understood Sherlock's motives. Sherlock had hated Mycroft right down to the bottom of his soul, but even through all of that, they were brothers. They had always been brothers, and despite all of the terrible things that had gone on between them throughout the years, there was still a miniscule, almost atomic part of Sherlock that winced to see his brother lying dead on the pavers in a brutal rain.

Sherlock lifted John to his feet and became a significant form of support, before turning to face his parents and Hamish.

"We need to get him back to the house" Sherlock nodded "get him warm and dry, find a doctor to see him-he did legitimately stop breathing-and then…" Sherlock glanced at Mycroft's body, before staring deeply into John's eyes "in spite of… recent events, is there any chance that… once this is over, a proper wedding might be in order?"

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning to see his father's eyes, a strange mixture of sadness and joy flitting across them. His father gently shook his hand.

"You have my blessing" he agreed "Lord only knows you deserve to be happy Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked into his father's eyes, deducing the new pain which was framed behind them. He deduced years of loneliness and-to his surprise-still noticed a difficult sadness which descended in the remnants of his eyes. Despite the negative influence Mycroft had evoked, it was obvious to Sherlock the both his parents had loved him.

Maybe Mr Holmes wasn't ready to lose two children. One to Death's cruel hands, the other to a stranger who had made their life worth living. Maybe he wasn't ready to let go of the two people who had been so precious in his life so far…

As if he knew what Sherlock was thinking, Mr Holmes grasped his hand, before turning to John.

"You'd better take good care of him Mr Watson" he nodded firmly.

John nodded in agreement "I will, I swear…"

* * *

Sherlock couldn't help but admire the way the golden band fitted perfectly around his finger as John slipped it on delicately. He heard the supervisor's words 'I now pronounce you officially wed!" and he felt himself lean forward in a insanely blissful daze as he captured John's lips against his own.

He felt the room burst out in applause. It was a simple ceremony, featuring only both men's parents, Harriet and Lestrade. Hamish stood astride John's mother, a proud grin spread across his face, his eyes glittering under the lights.

As for John's eyes, you could have plucked the stars from the sky and added an array of jewels, and still they wouldn't have been as bright as John's eyes were shining now.

Sherlock had never envisioned this moment. The moment when he would finally be granted his freedom, the moment where he would finally be permitted to walk amongst society again.

And he would never imagine the moment where he would be free to love John Watson, without risking wrath or consistently denying his relationship.

As they stepped apart, John grinned at Sherlock, clutched his hand and then led his towards the small crowd of their family and friends, Sherlock couldn't resist softly kissing John's hand, right where his newly place wedding ring sat

He was free. And as long as John was by his side, he would never run the risk of being entrapped again.

* * *

After their wedding, John and Sherlock worked out that a miniature bedsit was not appropriate accommodation to raise a family and start a married life in. So the pair began hunting for a new home.

Three long and arduous days went by. They looked at houses, apartments, flats, once-offices-which-now-served-as-flats and a ridiculously overpriced broom cupboard.

By the third day, both men were tired, bored and sick of doing nothing but trailing around with no plan in mind.

And that was when the found themselves turning into…

Sherlock pointed out the street sign to John.

**Baker Street**

John smiled for the first time that whole day "this looks nice…"

"Possibly expensive" Sherlock murmured.

"Worth a look anyway" John shrugged.

But they were both thinking the same thing '_please God, if You exist, let this be the street that we find a home. Because I can't be arsed walking around with no general direction for one more day without having the urge to throw myself in the Thames…'_

The first two places they came to were full. John began to get fed up.

"Third time lucky?" Sherlock questioned gently, leading John up to the door of '**221B**'

John nodded, and knocked on the black, well varnished front door.

An woman opened it. She was roughly in her sixties, with feathered blonde hair and an engaging smile.

"Hello" she smiled kindly "what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Hello" John replied "my name is John Watson Holmes, and this is my husband Sherlock. We're looking for a flat; we were wondering if there was one available?"

"Oh yes!" the woman smiled "I'm the landlady dear, Mrs Hudson, please do come in…"

She led them inside and up a flight of stairs, chatting kindly to them all the while. Sherlock and John both exchanged glances, already knowing that-if possible-this was the home they wanted.

Mrs Hudson pushed open a door at the top of the stairs, leading the pair into a comfortable, warm living area.

"This is the living room" she smiled "the kitchen is just through there, there's a bedroom down the hall, and there's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two…"

Sherlock smiled "that would suffice efficiently for Hamish" he nodded to John, who agreed.

"Wonderful!" Mrs Hudson grinned "are you interested in buying then?"

The pair nodded eagerly, eyes sparkling at the thought of what sort of home they could make…

"How much?" John asked.

Mrs Hudson named the price, and both men felt their heart sink. John sighed and nodded sadly.

"Well, thank you very much, but I'm afraid that's out of our price range…"

"Oh, it's alright dearie" Mrs Hudson smiled "for you, I can do a special deal!"

John blinked "wait, you can…?"

She nodded "oh yes, I believe we've met before… goodness, it must have been about three years ago now…"

John blinked. His line of sight jumped to the woman's arm, and he saw a raised scar running down the length. He saw the woman's eyes sparkle.

"You…" John whispered "that was _you _that day!"

Mrs Hudson nodded "I recognised you as soon as you said your husband's name" she smiled "I'm so happy you found him dearie, I was so worried about you!"

John knew he had barely exchanged conversation with the woman, but threw his arms around her anyway.

"Thank you" he whispered against her ear, kissing her on the cheek "you are a _saint_…"

"And you're clearly a miracle worker" she stared into John's eyes "you were blind the last time I saw you, you poor dear…"

"That was Sherlock" John nodded, grasping his husband's hands "if anyone's a miracle worker, then he is…"

Mrs Hudson nodded kindly "I couldn't agree more. Now, shall we talk about this flat…?"

* * *

And so, Sherlock, John and Hamish all moved into 221B Baker Street.

Of course, we could end this story here couldn't we? But there are so many more wonderful parts that we could add to show you just how completely wonderful Sherlock's life is now.

For instance, it could be said that Sherlock became close to Lestrade and soon thought of him as a friend. And it just so happened that Lestrade found Sherlock's deductions very interesting. So interesting in fact; that they could be very handy when it solving crimes.

And after Sherlock has deduced the results of his first triple homicide, he has a website made up.

_Sherlock Holmes: The Science of Deduction (Consulting Detective)_

When John playfully points out that this is not a real occupation, Sherlock tells him that he is the only one in the world, and proud of it.

Speaking of John, I suppose it is fair to mention that he is Sherlock's first most and chief assistant, best friend and companion. When the pair of them are not busy rushing around London together, John is either typing up their adventures on an online blog (because-it turns out-people really enjoy reading real murder mystery experiences) and working a job as a GP to help pay the bills.

Both men also took to fatherhood like a fish to water. Hamish adored his new reality in London, and after spending three, long years in the empty countryside, was astounded by the sheer level of brilliance that London had to offer. Aside from the city's amazing aspects, to see his Papa is such blissful adoration of his Father was a blessing in disguise.

But I suppose you're wondering about the authenticity of this story. I mean, this is a fantastic tale, it's not often something like this comes along. Stories like this one are precious, tales that have to be preserved to be truly believed.

One day, John questioned Sherlock (over a cup of tea) about if he had ever considered writing down his story.

"It's not something I've given much thought" Sherlock answered "besides, there's nothing interesting about being locked away in a tower for fifteen years."

John ran his hands gently through Sherlock's soft, short tresses, feeling the silken strands slip through his fingers.

"But there is something interesting about the longest tresses in the world" John murmured "and friendship, a building relationship, True Love, an escape plan, sexual intercourse, a secret wedding, a couple torn apart, giving birth alone in the countryside, raising a child, searching for the one thing that matters, finding your partner, forming new relationships, untying old knots, rooftop battles…" John gently kissed Sherlock's lips "and a happy ending."

And so Sherlock took John's advice. He wrote down his story, word for word, desperate to keep the authenticity of the tale alive when he translated it onto paper. When he showed it to John, Hamish, his parents and Lestrade, they all enjoyed it tremendously

So tremendously in fact, that they reckoned he should publish it, so that other people could enjoy it as well. At first Sherlock refused, but his resolve softened and he eventually agreed with them and took their advice. Except he refused to publish the work under his own name, he used someone else's instead.

But I can hear you wondering. Whatever happened to this story? Where is it now?

Well, the answer will probably not surprise you. It is even (to Sherlock's own mind) incredibly obvious and easily deductable.

It is right here in front of you. You have just finished reading it.

And do you want to hear a secret?

They all lived Happily Ever After.

_Fin._

* * *

**Note: Wow. Several amazing weeks, and a mere 44,000 words later (hey, it happens!), and we have finally come to the end of our story. Where can I possibly begin to express my gratitude to all those that who have helped this fic grow to become the story that it is today! :D**

**First of all, my sincerest thanks to all of my followers, favouriters and reviews. You are all amazing, fantastic, glorious and beautiful people. If I could give you all a glorious hug to express my gratitude, then I would. You have all been such a constant source of support and encouragement, and I truly cannot thank you enough.**

**Secondly, I realize that this story is over now. I suppose that means no more Sherlock!Rapunzel stories from now on, right?**

**Not quite.**

**Seeing as this story had become such a literal fairytale success (I truly never envisioned such positive responses!) I have decided to write another Sherlock!Rapunzel story, but this time swapping around the characters. So John is the trapped, long haired beauty, and Sherlock is the wayward rescuer. Of course, these two stories are going to be drastically different from each other, so you can expect something new and unique!**

**It will be uploaded TOMORROW (Saturday 20th July). If you would like to go and have a read, it will be titled either 'Golden,' 'John, oh John, let down your hair' or something else entirely (I am just so original with titles...) Either way, you'll recognize it when you see it!**

**But enough blatant advertising. Just, as I've said before, thank you for everything that you-my wonderful readers-have done to support me throughout this story. Hopefully I may see you again at my next story, but until then, I shall bid you fond farewell (to quote, 'parting is such sweet sorrow!')**

**The Game is On!**

**-_Imaginethat27_**


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